Anirban Dam




A body in stasis is just memory decaying,

you say. It’s probably an article she read last night

I tell myself, dismissing your statement whilst

buttoning your shirt;


the length of your hair partially concealing

your left shoulder. I ask if that’s a scar

or a birthmark under your clavicle?

You shrug and murmur event boundary.


Walking through a doorway triggers the brain

to forget, you continue. The brain compartmentalizes

events, cuffs them within rooms,

then tucks it away.


In that sense, we are dossiers dancing

in and out of doors, cuffed to the possibility

of forgetting. You, a catalogue of circumstances,

I, a cabinet full of lost chances.





Downstairs, the kettle wheezes

and the day is yet to assume its shape

(unlike the small of your back)

your dimples hoard crumbs of light


that stretches within the expanse

of this room, we might not

even remember. Yet time,

like a gentle scalpel undresses

your body with enough precision

for my hands to hover over your birthmarks —

as if clocks longing to move in retrospect.


I keep you to myself.