An Offer to the Captive

Pin me to the wall and I’ll show you the map of the universe,
this one or any other. You choose.

Touch my lips and from there you can trace the constellations
of stars, all bright and burning,
that lead to the dark matters and black holes of my body,
amidst swirling masses of unknown fabrics of realities,

more real than this.

Clutch my hand and bang it against the floor and with every thud
is a door breaking open,
inviting you in, and you won’t resist it.
How can you say no to a world of no lines, only colors?
How can you refuse a realm shapeless and boundless?
No parents erecting walls,
politicians pitching prisons, bishops building hells,
as though you belong to a two-dimensional plane
like a pawn on a boardful of squares ruled by important kings
and powerful queens, and no one else.

Unlike in this world, see?

You can be anyone you want —
an astronaut, a rocketeer, a space cartographer,
a Martian riding the dunes with another red-skinned nomad,
Or a greasy bolt drifting aimlessly in the skies with no gravity to trap it,
only a nut to hug your threads and twists as tightly as you deserve.
Or you can be just like me,
a thin sheet of fragile map,
patiently waiting for his lost explorer to press him carelessly on a wall
and buy the irreverent promise of

no return.


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