The Course of the Disease
Black blood aflame
like fever
burning with fervour
ignited like wasps
around the shadowy beard of a nest
on a comb of trees
amidst the paddy-green fields.
Raw nerves plucked out of the way
by a conspiracy of ravens
to uncover the inflamed joint
and bare the warped white bone.
The disease quickens its course
swells the sinews tight
stiffens the limbs solid
stains the skin red.
Locks me
with pain that
deadens the living
and enlivens the dead.
Progress
The earth
gashed open
flaming red and raw
for a sightseer’s café
on the tea-green
mountainside
(a fetid ulcer
on a youthful
skinned knee)
for the sake
of progress
(or panorama)
with no remorse,
responsibility (or refuge)
from the landslide
to follow
with the next deluge.
Sea Change
Nightfall at noon
auras of streetlamps
smudges in the gloom
waves of sweeping rain
slating against the windowpane.
Flame trees turgid with water
lurching down
to the ground
all the while
the brute outside roars
to be let in the room.
Offerings
I have roses for you
a bouquet of downy ruby roses
a kaftan of shaded dusky roses
Ms Dior’s Eau de Toilette (Rose N’Roses)
lace-edged handkerchiefs of damask roses
a sketchbook of vivid garden roses
a birthday cake of peach cream tea roses
still locked in my gift trunk
two years later
Though perhaps not the birthday cake.
A Thought
If we are not our bodies nor our actions
if we are not our minds nor our thoughts
nor our habits nor intentions
then
what are we?
Maithree Wickramasinghe’s husband Ranil Wickremesinghe is the former president of Sri Lanka.
Excerpted with permission from Unexpectedly, Maithree Wickramasinghe, Penguin India.
