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•   A BIANNUAL LITERARY MAGAZINE BROUGHT TO YOU BY DESI WRITERS' LOUNGE   •

Volume 13


Metropolis - October 2014


Verse

Rhea Cinna

Written by
Rhea Cinna

Rhea Cinna is a writer, film enthusiast and doctor. She loves big cities, museums, film festivals, animals in most non-reptilian incarnations and believes there’s no place like a moated chateau. She is a contributor for The Missing Slate. Her work has also appeared in Stone Highway Review, Rufous City Review, Crack the Spine and other publications.

        
      
       
            
              

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You should see me today, facing
against the receiver:
“wrong number” — I’m sure it would
be easier if I let you, if words turned you
into something other than a knife-thrower’s assistant,
complete with wheel and glitzy dress
and eyelashes made-up into mascara spider legs — yes, if we
should meet again as strangers,
sip atmosphere in a café, scoff at the
latest staging of Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard, I
could admit running away was foolish, I’d jump
from building to building with the gargoyles
and grin my luck at the sun, lie to everyone,
say there is no road, no train, no straw
to grasp at. I would walk the motions so gracefully,
you’d never know my feet were shackled, bury
my numbered overalls under the Daily “I love you”
tree, like a dog a bone, I’d listen to you
say we make good music together and
dance you into a Vettriano painting, muse
about how nothing seems to change,
but people do. If I was there, naked, stark,
skin, the map of me unfolded to the bull’s eye
you drew pointing sharply in one direction, if you stood
here, now, ring finger, knees, navel, collar bone,
face, lips, tongue, mine, yours, maybe
the world really would go on
without giving a damn.

 

 

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