Sampurna Chattarji (In response to the thread of new images on the blog)

The rubber glove waits to be filled with flesh
before it enters into soap and water,
into tissue and nerve, into orifice.
Its pinkness is the travesty of dolls.
Rubber boots can be grey verging on blue
before merging into other feet clad only in skin.
The colour of paper keeps changing.
Your knee is a hinge. Then why isn’t your leg
a door that I can open and close behind me,
entering a country the shape of a boot, a glove?

Sampurna Chattarji

Leave a Reply