top of page
Image by Abbilyn Rurenko

The Performative childhood

In the long summer afternoons,
When fan makes the humming sound,
And the earth is bone dry
I visit the house of whispers,
The house of my ancestors,
And pick the versions of myself,
Aching, dark, performative versions
From hidden nooks and secret niches,
In the hallway, in the godless temple,
And under the jackfruit tree.
The loving hostility of its inhabitants,
Comes alive in long summer afternoons,
You see what you didn’t then.
The frailty of human thoughts,
Its violence and subjugation.

bottom of page