Thayil's book of English poems
lies soaked in my flooded house,
flooded because the kitchen drain
malfunctioned and vomited out
whatever shit it was overfed with
for the past three years. Its pages
are soggy, stuck like lovers making
love for the first time, translucent 
with words peeping, moving like ants,
floating like ghosts, here and there,
from pages far beyond the first one.

I heat up the iron and press its face
against Thayil's words. They quiver,
sizzle, as if a needle is pricked 
against the skin. Vapours of his
words, from the section ACHE 
where he talks of his dead wife,
escape from the book and slither
into the sky in search of the muse
who mothered those memories. 
The page, warm but no more soggy, 
reads the poem's title that says:
T{e Air H~re Is Crowd♧d.

The Air Here Is Crowded Thayil's book of English Poems lies soaked in my flooded house, flooded because the kitchen drain malfunctioned and vomited out whatever shit it was overfed with for the past three years. Its pages are soggy, stuck like lovers making love for the first time, translucent with words peeping, moving like ants, floating like ghosts, here and there, from pages far beyond the first one. I heat up the iron and press its face against Thayil's words. They quiver, sizzle, as if a needle is pricked against the skin. Vapours of his words, from the section ACHE where he talks of his dead wife, escape from the book and slither into the sky in search of the muse who mothered these memories. The page, warm but no more soggy, reads the poem's title that says: T{e Air H~re Is Crowd♧d. #poem

20 MAR AT 13:27