my city is
a. a wide open plain (you come here for a catch, until she catches you, and you realise you’ve been lied to)
b. a pain (you ask for one thing over and over, until the opposite is delivered, and you realise you’ve been lied to)
c. a safe house (doors are open open open until they slam in your face, and you realise you’ve been lied to)
d. a liar
e. other option; please write in below.
but no, my city is a body. breathing, alive. seething. warm.
and you realise you’re being held too tight.
but you can leave, if you want, you’re welcome to.
she won’t mind. and when she looks at you that way on your first day back,
you’ll want to spit on her.
but you won’t. leave or spit.
cause my city can be a dream girl when she wants to, a darling.
but most of the time, she stays out until her skin is grimy, and she doesn’t wash the makeup off.
she’s had too many drinks, tipsy in the 7/11. her location’s turned off and she’s unreachable.
she’s hollering and hooting and dancing like she’s just been born.
her hair is oily and her dress is soot black.
she says she’ll remember you, return the favour, but you know the truth.
the hand she holds behind her back has her fingers crossed and pocket-knife ready.
“see you soon!” but you know better.
my city, a poem by Komal Keshran, head editor of 3shotcine
after Prebet Sapu, internationally titled Hail, Driver! (2020), written and directed by Muzzamer Rahman.
Prebet Sapu is available to watch on Netflix.
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