The Milk Carton Closet by Mehr Walia (20, India)

I close my eyes and rock my head
but my closet, if it were a glass ceiling
barely ever low lying
would only provide a dent
on the sideboard bed

the scorching grounds at recess
hiked up skirts and muddy fingers
you look at me and drag me by the arm
like a maverick claiming abandoned luggage at last minute

---

lingering meals
you, me - we can take over an entire city
only if my closet was a trojan horse.
wooded hollow confines
churning outrage in the stomach of the equus
but the ruse de guerre is against me
plotted by my own
the home the classroom
the neighbour's bbq

gender and sexuality on the countertop
mixed and missed for a jägerbomb.
I slurp a sweet drink to shut up the slur up of the soft I adorn in places of stern disposition,
their practiced eyes.
from the corner
I see you
push the chewed up straw down
pull me to the other end of the house
if my closet were the unrequited wardrobe
to narnia,
I'd let you be my overenthusiastic guide.
we'd skip the pretentious turkish delights
and I'd hold your hand tight.
kiss your forehead
in Mr. Tumnus's burrow
as we see the fire figures dance to his folklore.

but the girth of unspoken words grow
their finger-thin stems turn brown and prickly
as they twist the insides of my gut all night
I cramp out on the floor from the realisation of an unrealised dream.
like the milk in an empty carton box
in an empty attic
of an empty house
it makes much noise.