Mistaken Identity Poem by Sridala Swami

Obasa min Dahlin' used his head to stop a bullet. The people in the press room used their eyes. If they blinked with their eyes closed they sometimes saw a deeper red. Their wideangled phones caught everything—they were so powerful.

They were so powerful they could tune rumour into fact. [One of those instances when the word ‘powerful' and the word ‘sensitive' are nearly synonymous.]

Dahlin' was a free bird in a free world because he has wings. I have never had wings. I have never felt the air solidify around me because I never travel at such speeds.

What I have is roots. What he had is caves. What they have is fences. [You could call this a primer.]I have seen fences that shed the clothes they were given so that they could keep their neutrality in plain sight. In a borderless world I like the reassurance of fences I can see through. I often wonder at what speeds a person would need to travel to make it through those gaps all fences have. If you travel really fast—at bullet-speed, say—is the fence still porous or is it solid?