Searchlights within reveal the roost of my still

small voice is on a glacis: nothing unusual, I’m

getting on in years. Swizzle sticks are my way

of keeping track in a bar. Nip between us glaces

your eye, guttatim you defreeze. There is unrest

between faultlines and fruition: believe me, I’ve

detonated many. Yours is a phase. You too will

curtsy. This is the charter of growing up. 

Originally appears in Postcolonial Text, Vol 11, No 2 (2016)