Bookbinder of Hyderabad

Jugs of methyl blue. Paint over all the walls. Women

sit cross-legged, Indian-style, in suits of the same.

Long arms Oriental eyes Kohl.

If I wrap my ribs around, it will keep me unseen.

I fit to cardboard, memory. Old newspaper,

tanned skins, the cured skins of animals.

I don't do anything for the love of it. I make

pennies. I make money, a binder of books.

portrait

your father:
with surgeon's hands
stealthily picks knives out of kitchen
drawers late at night