Poem

I watch my cellphone flash
With a frantic call — goes out — back
Again. I have left the last letter, his
Last postcard in the dustbin of
Desire among sweepings and
Dead cats of memory. Till the next.
I wait patiently for the passing of
This fantastic invasion, when all I’d done was to
Spill by chance some ink on his chest that
Cannot be washed away.
I have chosen a snowy dress, I have
Brightened my teeth. The
Heart — that is harder to groom
But the better part of it, my writing, is
White.

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