Ankit Damani
Crater
I once had a birthmark on my left shoulder.
A baby screaming in agony bore this mark,
the result of an injection
which was meant to protect
my helpless body from infection.
From danger.
A neat little sliver of protrusion
surrounded by a crater,
the moat to my microcastle.
It once proudly stood alone,
a landmark against impurity.
My forefinger would sometimes
drift off towards it and circle cautiously,
perhaps its feeble attempt at time travel,
taking me to my days of perfection,
of honeydew and home movies.
I would once again feel familiar fingers
that ran over the lonely guardian,
as they washed my flawless skin,
fingers kneading all along
those puny yellow-brown arms.
I may still have the mark today, but I can't be sure.
My forefinger doesn’t drift anymore.
It wouldn’t dare to navigate around the
swarm of pustules, boils, cysts
that now stand tall, surrounding the terrified knoll.
The moat rendered hopeless.
Furious volcanoes, land mines
so eager to burst forth from
this toxic, etherized land,
pulsating like a horde of smartphones
buzzing in sync to form an earthquake.
Nothing could stop them but goddamn,
do they infuriate the perfect child in my dreams
who glares at me scornfully, every night.
My eyes cannot meet his.
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