What lies past the curtain?
Machine-cut headstones, or uncanny brows?
Butcher bags, or our neighbour’s best guess?
You.
I can see your shadow on my grave:
Puce ears, stained skin.
You clear yesterday’s rubbish,
Left by some Rock-raved, unwary kid—
Polish the dimensions, caress the crest;
Think, remember: unwashed trays in the scullery,
A room sealed for the sake of memory.
You’ve seen it in galleries:
Divine bloodbath, sun-drenched loitering—
Lament, lament— amidst the throttling two-wheelers
that glide by, blissfully unaware— or indifferent,
what does it matter?
And now, begin— breathe in, hold—
Your pupils palpitate— a bloodhound’s glowing gaze.
Reasons. Amends. Resentment. Accept.
Only— you don’t.
Stand, solemn, silent.
Hands crossed, in quiet reverence.
Stay, stare, then slide away:
Back home to the unwashed trays and empty frames.
I watch, stone-still as can be.
I pray, look! You never see— and I’m to blame.
Close. How could you ever ascertain
what lies past the curtain?

The Barbaric Yawp