Selma imagined cyanide
in a chemist’s war-ready apothecarion
She accepted its existence.
There, it is.
There it is.

She even entertained
its good usage;
with moderation,
perhaps supervised, certified and stamped,
and always measured: of(f),…, course.

She realized, firmly and crispy,
not as that fancy fox with the slick scorpion,
nor that boy, village or wolf,
that acceptance, however feebly enchanted,
was not mutual.

Metaphysical Cyanide would have
its health, its job,
its sense of purpose, its relations
and perhaps
its architectured and shelved community

One touch, one embrace,
one too close an encounter
and Selma recognized her iteration
of selma-ness would be,
no more.
There, she isn’t.
There she is not.

Proverbial Cyanide,
the Great De-ontologizer
The Undoer of otherness
The Maker of a sinless world.

Selma,
-imagined,
without helmet,
walked on, walked-on.



—animasuri’24




—-•
Some Triggers

1. Your imagination
2. My private, inside-voice meanderings
3. as ever, a wink.