You taught me spirits don’t move

but horizontally, in order to be safe,

all you’ll need is a trivial hurdle

between the sofa and the bedroom, oriented

the way the feng-shui suggests. A Benjarong teapot,

the one from your mother, a carved door

reflecting the multiple aspects the Naga can exist.

We went down to the chalk-stupa temple

the motionless stupas, that allow no livable cavity

on top of Buddha’s relic – a trace of hair, the ultimate nail.

We stared at ourselves as if the lake carps were

about to swallow us, shred our terrestrial meats

apart, to reincarnate in a lower circle,

a rat, a dragonfly, a monitor lizard.

Garuda’s wooden profiles were crutches for the oxygen

of the world, I would have leaned your silk

dress to invert the reproductive process, teach the butterfly

how to come back to the status of a silk worm, that giving your life away

was just not worth it, that no pashmina embroidery

deserves the final act, the one nobody

will narrate – just the latest of the countless ignored miracles.

The image of your neck overwhelmed all

this, the recess between your shoulder blade

and your atlas where your skin twists and stumbles and changes

its color, where I’d pour loads of tiger

balm, the fire of red tiger balm would

burn up to lathe your outline, to soothe

your domestic grieves, with a major blaze.

Considering giving your life away, to be a string

benefitting of your human warmth.