The Roach

Behold! The first roach of spring.
Its carapace, stilled
on dank brown soil.
The sun browning its belly.
Spiny legs curled.
And ghost limbs stretching,
from its carcass.
Digging,
into the earth.
The roach,
cold in their mouths.
A prayer of chitin
for their kin.

outside, the city slept

Outside on the balcony, he could hear the city sleeping. Tall trees, poplars he thought, momentarily angered that he didn’t know their names, concealed the redbrick exoskeleton of a residential dwelling, allowing only minute glints of florescence to filter through their black foliage. He trembled unconsciously from the cold as he removed a wrinkled pouch of tobacco from the pocket of his jacket. He placed a few thick strands on a piece of rice paper and rolled it between his fingers. Once he had achieved the desired symmetry he extracted a filter from the pouch and placed it at the end of the cigarette and wrapped the paper over it once, twice with swift movements of his fingers. He ran his tongue briefly over the adhesive strip, carefully sealing the cigarette. Putting it in his mouth, he glanced upwards at thickening clouds, which had acquired a phantasmal luminescence from the lights of the distant city. He lit his cigarette, inhaling sharply the sweet smoke, shivering as much from the strangeness of his existence in that alien world as from the bite of the wind on his throat.

Occasionally the silence would be broken by the rumble of an electric train ferrying its cargo of travellers. And upon straining his ears he perceived other sounds. A thud-thudding that was not his heart. Sudden rustlings of leaves as unseen inhabitants of the trees shifted in slumber. He made his way to the edge of the balcony, put his hands on the icy metal railing and glanced down at a stretch of cobbled pathway that snaked a few yards through the “poplars” and ferns before disappearing into the darkness. He stood puffing away mutely, his thoughts wrapped around himself.

Then, from the periphery of his vision, he discerned a movement and quickly stubbed out his cigarette. But his caution was in vain; in a brightly illuminated spot below stood a pale, uniformed figure whose gaze seemed to be directed towards him. A sliver of light reflected off its insignia caught his eye, blinding him with wild coruscations of gold and silver. He staggered into his small rented room, tears cascading down his cheeks. He fumbled for the handle of the bathroom door, twisted it open and fell weeping into the shower stall, the glints of silvergold still bright in his eyes. He reached for the shower handle, turning it until the water slapped him coldly in the face.

...........................

Three young men played on a frozen meadow. Leaping, running, stumbling, swinging fistfuls of snow at one another. He could hear their laughter even inside the car. He reached inside his pocket for his pouch and rolled himself a cigarette. Putting it into his mouth, he adjusted the rear-view mirror. In the backseat sat the uniformed figure.

“Look”

He saw one of the men reach inside his jacket.

“Look”

There, running out of a grove of trees that lined the meadow’s west, a golden haired girl and an old woman. The man, who stood by the cooling carcasses of his friends took aim.

"NO"

He sputtered, and ran to the sink and began vigorously to rinse his face. Then, he straightened and looked at himself in the cracked mirror of the medicine cabinet. But in its manifold reflections he found the old woman and the golden haired child. He screamed.

There was a knock on the door, followed by a moment of silence. Then the knocking resumed with growing intensity. Finally, the door was flung open and a uniformed figure marched in with trays delicately balanced on either arm. It stood at his feet as he lay trembling in a heap on the floor and offered a smile.

“Breakfast, sir?”

a house and a woman

There was once a house on a tiny island whose sole human inhabitant was a young woman. It was a small house made of coral and driftwood. The sea was only a few yards from its doorstep when the tide was out. Sometimes, when the house was submerged at high tide, it would come alive in a kaleidoscopic explosion of tentacles that swayed in rhythm with the currents. It was a sight more magnificent than anything most people saw in their lifetime.

The weather was mostly tempestuous around the island and the young woman mostly stayed in. On rare sunlit afternoons, she would emerge from her dwelling; her slender body covered in layers of velvety moss. She would go to the water’s edge and, with a piece of coral, begin to scrape the moss from her body. And slowly, the dull green would give way to skin white as sand. Then, with a toss of her sandy head, she would go about gathering driftwood.

On a particularly dismal afternoon, the woman stood by her little window, watching the sea being whipped into a mad froth by the wind. She spotted a ship braving the storm in the distance. Columns of water rose around the vessel and toppled onto it like crumbling masonry.

There might be company this evening, she thought. Perhaps a good sailor or two. Her heart gave a tiny flutter. She moved away from the window and opened the door. Water lapped at her feet while she stood on the doorstep. Soon, the island, the house, and herself would be under water. And within a tangle of iridescent limbs, she would wait for her guests to arrive.

revelations

A body lies on your bed. White haired, thin, thin lips drawn tight against the gums. Perhaps in pain. Perhaps in pleasure. You see its eyes. Their lids are veined, halfclosed. Clear fluids spill viscously from the corners causing stains to bloom on the sheet. Quietly, on either side of the head.

Its gaze seems to rest on the ceiling. A face shimmers on it like a watery reflection. It is white all over but for the eyes. Their blackness drips slowly onto the face below, vanishing upon contact. The body shudders. Its lips part, revealing dark tarstained gums. The mouth moves rapidly, overwhelmed by words. You take your recorder and push the red button. Eventually, the lips become still. You turn off the recorder and walk to your desk. You press ‘play’ and hear yourself repeatedly calling out your name.

insects

There are insects on the bathroom floor, coating it with slime and excrement. Black, quivering insects, trembling onward on a bed of goo. They chance upon beings thriving in the gaps between ceramic tiles. Some are eaten, pre digested. Others, with the smell of death on them, are left alone.
Buried in the insects’ animal unconscious is the notion of a place full of darkness, dirt and moisture, whose doors lie concealed beneath a tangled mass of skin and hair.
Across the tiles the insects quiver, leaving behind a tell-tale trail of slime and excrement.
As the insects approach their destination their bodies begin to harden. They burrow quickly through the clumps of hair and skin. They find the doors and slip through. And in the cool darkness of their underworld, they begin to feast on the filth of centuries as their bodies metamorphose.

black sheep

A black sheep fell into a drugged slumber and dreamt of a bird. It fluttered into a room that was no more; its colours flashing feverishly whenever they caught the sun. It alighted upon the sheep’s extended limb and poured its secrets into a black ear. Were they questions? Were they answers? The sheep did not know. But it listened because no bird had ever shown any interest in it before.

The bird pecked gently at a tuft of wool with its velvet beak before taking flight. It flew out an open window, past flowering creepers that bloomed at dusk. It soared into the clouds; the tuft of wool in its mouth streaming behind like a dark vapour trail. The sheep watched until the sky was consumed by the blackness of its fleece. And, turning away, it caught the first whiff of an evening flower as it burst into bloom.

a vision of my country in the distant future

it's 250 years later,
we're afloat in the ocean,
we have an exclusive economic zone.
we don't have a true shoreline
or sand.
sometimes there are tidalwave alerts
which no one heeds
except the elderly because
they don't want their homes
to move without prior warning.

children fish from porches
and play in kelp farms.
grownups work
at desalination plants,
at floating power stations
or in kelp farms.
mothers are expected to know how to make:
oyster cakes,
seaweed salads,
prawn casseroles,
wetsuits.

everyone still speaks dhivehi
with friends, wives, colleagues,
but no one speaks beyfulhu language
except for poets.
and those who speak beyfulhu language
are considered poets.
and shunned.
especially by other poets
who, as children, never fished from porches
and dream mostly about the ocean.
and speak of the beyfulhu ghosts
they glimpse in its depths.