Birth of the Reader – Farabee Pushpita

BY FARABEE PUSHPITA

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LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT PERDITION. / LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT HOW THOSE BURROWING UNDERNEATH TECTONIC PLATES / SHOULD NOT BE SURPRISED WHEN THE UPHEAVAL CAUSES EARTHQUAKES. / LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT WHAT WRITERS PRETEND NOT TO KNOW FOR PEACE OF MIND. / WRITING IS DRESSING UP YOUR WOUNDS AND PARADING THEM AROUND TOWN IN FANCY CLOTHES. / SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO PRETEND TO BE A STRANGER TO YOUR OWN HURT WHEN YOU SPOT IT IN THE STREETS. / COME ON, LITTLE ONE. / BITE YOUR TONGUE, TURN YOUR HEAD. / THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE HERE. / NOTHING OF YOURS ANYMORE / NOT NOW THAT YOU’VE GIVEN YOURSELF TO THE WORLD. / WHAT CAME FROM WITHIN YOU IS NO LONGER YOURS TO LOSE.

THIS WHOLE WORLD WANTS TO OWN US / BUT THE PINNACLE OF YOUR PRIDEFUL PURSUITS / ARTISTIC ACCOLADES / IS TO PAINT YOUR PAIN IN CORUSCATING COLOURS / SHIMMERY SHINE / GLAMOROUS GRIME / AND PLACE A PRETTY BOW ATOP / HOLD IT OUT TO THE WORLD AND SAY / “LOOK AT ME. / NEVER STOP LOOKING AT ME. / I WAS HERE AND I AM A LOT LIKE YOU. / PLEASE. / PLEASE. / TELL ME YOU SEE IT TOO.” / IF YOU RIP OUT ENOUGH DRAGONFLY WINGS ONTO THE GROUND / YOU CAN PERSUADE THEM IT’S A SHOWER OF IRIDESCENT PETALS. / (DO THEY BELIEVE YOU? / DO YOU BELIEVE THEM NOW? / YOU WANT THEM TO TAKE YOU AT YOUR WORD / BUT WHO DOES THE WORD BELONG TO?).

THIS DESPAIR NEVER GOES AWAY / SO YOU WRITE IT OUT IN A MILLION DIFFERENT WAYS. / WOOLF IS DEAD SHELLEY IS DEAD KEATS IS DEAD. / YOU WANT TO BE PART OF THE CANON BUT NOT OF COLONIALISM. / YOU WANT TO BE PART OF THE HISTORY BOOKS BUT WON’T BE CAUGHT DEAD BEGGING. / THE EMPEROR HAS NEW CLOTHES. / YOUR LITTLE EMPIRE COLLAPSES BECAUSE IT’S MADE FROM YOUR OWN BONES. / EVERYONE WANTS TO BELIEVE WHAT THEY WANT TO BELIEVE. / AND WHAT YOU THOUGHT WAS THE GREATEST GIFT OF ALL COMES BACK TO NIP AT YOUR SHINS / AND REMIND YOU / WHITE PEOPLE WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND YOUR WORDS SO THEY WILL TRY TO MAKE THEM THEIR OWN. / AND THAT IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A WRITER. / YOU BECOME A TANTALUS TO YOUR OWN SELF / SERVE UP YOUR ENTRAILS ON A GLISTENING PLATTER / (DON’T FORGET THE GARNISH, ADD SOME MORE SEASONING SO IT’S PALATABLE) / AND SAY, “I GIVE THIS TO YOU TO MAKE OF IT WHAT YOU WILL / BECAUSE THAT IS THE POWER OF POETRY.” / AND YOU MEAN IT, YOU REALLY DO / BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT DOESN’T HURT YOU.

BUT IT’S TOO LATE NOW. / YOU’RE A BIG GIRL NOW. / SO YOU’LL TIP YOUR HAT AT THE DOOR / SHAKE HANDS WITH YOUR GHOSTS / PECK YOUR PAST ON THE CHEEK / AND SAY, “HELLO, IT WAS NICE TO MEET YOU / BUT

REMIND ME AGAIN / WHO ARE YOU?” / WHO ARE YOU NOW THAT YOU’VE MADE YOURSELF COME UNDONE AND BEQUEATHED IT TO THEM ALL? / AND THERE IS NO ONE TO ANSWER YOU / BUT YOU’VE KNOWN THAT ALL ALONG. / SO YOU CARRY ON / PRAY YOU DON’T CATCH ANYONE’S EYES IN THE STREETS / STAB THE SAME WOUND IN YOUR SIDE / POUR OUT THE SAME PAIN / AND FIND PLEASURE. / JESUS CHRIST, WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER SAY? / SECRETS BECOME CONFESSIONALS IN SCRIPT. / THE PEN PERCHES LIKE A GAVEL AND PINS DOWN ALL YOUR LOVED ONES ON THE PAGE. / IT’S A VICIOUS CYCLE, THIS INABILITY TO ESCAPE EACH OTHER’S GAZE.

YOU PEDDLE YOUR SOUL IN THIS PROFESSION / AND IT’S ALL YOU’VE EVER DESIRED / IT’S ALL YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT / BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT EASIER. / YOU CLUTCHED AT CONTROL TIGHTLY AND MADE IT YOUR GOD-GIVEN MISSION TO LET GO SPECTACULARLY / SPRAY YOUR INNARDS FOR THEM ALL TO SEE / TO TASTE / TO RELISH / TO TAKE / EVEN THE ONES WHO WISH YOU WERE DEAD / FOR WHOM YOU EXIST AS A SUBHUMAN IN THE BACK-CHAMBERS OF THEIR HEADS / AND YOU WOULD DO IT AGAIN. / SO MUCH TIME WASTED WORRYING ABOUT WORDS AND WHO THEY BELONG TO / AS IF EMILY DICKINSON WASN’T BINDING UP HER FASCICLES IN DRAWERS / AS IF THE ACT OF GIVING ALWAYS IMPLIES SOMETHING HAS TO BE TAKEN / NOT RECEIVED / AS IF LONELY LITTLE GIRLS WHO OPEN A BLANK PAGE FOR THE FIRST TIME CARE / AS IF PURGATORY EVER MADE A DIFFERENCE TO HOW / HAPPINESS IS A GOLDEN NOOSE. / IF IT FEELS NATURAL, IF IT FEELS GOOD / WHY RUN? / THERE IS NOT A WAR TO BE WON / NOTHING MORE TO BE DONE / SO LET YOURSELF BE EXTINGUISHED BY THE SETTING SUN / SCRABBLING FOR A SINGLE CLUE / DIVING HEADFIRST INTO THE BRIGHT-DARK / AND TELL ME / ABOUT PERDITION. / TELL ME ABOUT TECTONIC PLATES. / LIFE IS TOO FLEETING FOR THEIR HATRED OR YOUR PARANOIA. / THAT’S WHY YOU TAKE JUST AS MUCH AS YOU GIVE FROM THE PAGE. ART BY MATTHEW KURNIA

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