Untitled Poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul

and what of that man...
who follows,
constantly picking up my pieces

screwing in light-bulbs
turned off
then on

scattering petals and buds
for the larceny that seethed
in my grubby little soul

tying together twigs
for me to rest feathers upon?

I want to be his cry.
the tears which run away
with falling down longing.

I was wing without bird.
he, a diligent historian pursuing truth
down many paths at once...
a coloring book without lines.