Memories of the Interior
A Poem In Which She Remembers by Meena Kandasamy
“We were not lovers, we were love.” —Jeannette Winterson
The woman you once knew will not own up to her face.
She’ll tie her hair in a topknot, guard its million tangles, skip kohl that once defined her eyes, forsake the gypsy jewellery, milk cigarettes in her mouth, and stop herself from dancing in the rain.
She’ll curse her restless anklets that break the silence of cruel days, bury herself under a blanket that betrays the shame of night hungers, and sleep herself to a dream of waking by your side.
She’ll write you the daring first lines of long love-letters she will never send, struggle to prevent a poem from forming within her mouth, and in its place, feed the promises of your kisses to her eager tongue.
All images from the series Memories of the Interior Tehran, 2012
Temptations of Morning Sleep
Nude by her Childhood