Inkblot In a Gallery 

I see my hand moves.
My hips lift me from the seat.
Now I realise where 
the painting ends and I begin.

I gear the buzz. Others ask 
the guide if he likes it, if he sees
himself in it. 
Not really. It has 
a reflection of a painter, but not him.
It has fruits, not seeds, models, 
not bones, blood, wound and puss.

I tilt, lean against the canvas.
Again, the painting becomes endless.
I am an inkblot the models look at,
one fly fruits feel against their dead skin.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor