Ayesha Chatterjee '91
While we’re on the subject,
let’s talk about the walls, Mr A.,
let’s count them, make sure they’re
all there and in perfect working order.
They’re the arms of the thing, after all.
The beat, the rhythm, the silent drum.
They’re the white telephones of this whole shebeen,
the moonshine, if you will, the show
And I am confident, Mr A., that every wall,
concave or convex, will portray what you
want it to, buon fresco or secco finto, lotus
or fish or green goddess microchipped into
metamorphosis. You can plaster your peacock feathers
and cure your luck, for good or evil. Soak up
the sap and nurture the essence.
Okay, there are twenty-one of them. Twenty-one
is a good number, I feel. They’ll hold.
(Previously published on British poet Abegail Morley’s iconic blog The Poetry Shed)