Zufishan Rahman
In the labyrinthine passages of your pink brain,
Frida, I find myself wandering. Each synaptic fold
carries a new visage. As I sit here, legs folded, unravelling
each epiphany like untangling a clump of wool,
I am surrounded by images of people with big hats sitting
on their skulls and smoking pipes pursed between their lips.
They sleep with gods making scaffolds out of their fingers
and gorge the earth like a half-bitten fruit.
In this phantasmagoria, there is also a man with
an untrimmed grey beard, his hands poised
with a healer’s grace and a white dove tucked
into the expanse of the sky. He tells about
the dim recesses of coal mines, sewage conduits,
and sordid brothels where labourers toil
beneath the yoke of the sun.
The men who sleep with gods pull tight
the cords of the leather corset, yielding
the last blow of air from the tiny man’s mouth.
In their grim lexicon, proletarians are burdened
with albatrosses upon their stooped shoulders.
Thus, I find solace in the crimson tome
that rests under my meek lamp. And like you,
Frida, I too harbour a crater within my breast.
