A Christmas Card, Linoprint

Christmas cuts an eye,
and the blade of its choice,
as thin as a card recovered 
from our attic proves that
even sepia or rust can glint. 

Now I see memory bleed.
The splodges of red fashion
a petite dress sporting polka dots.
We talked about Buñuel’s
Un Chien Andalou
before they held their hands 
in God’s name.

My hair, long then, startled 
my shoulders with 
the cold serpents’ sleepy winter touch. 
Now I open my eyes, even
the ones I do not have.
Even an insect, insignificant, see
how the details fade and sepia 
gathers its treasure of sighs.





Kushal Poddar
Nick Victor



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