Saturday, June 24, 2006


In the Bollywood flick

my neurologist, Kruthavanti

would doctor the plump rich

marry a gorgeous unhappy someone

be tormented by some dusty village

secret, how he got away, how he is

tethered to a struggling past

his wriggling sack of bones

clanks in broomclosets,

file cabinets, washrooms

He pricks my insensate legs

with splintered toothpicks,

hammers unmoving knees

cheerlessly, chucks my chin

aside from his stethoscope

that my patient breath not soil

inquiry, then rushes to wash

again and again and again,

hands which never touched me,


Akua Lezli Hope

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