"Oh destiny of Borges, perhaps no stranger than yours": Elegia/Borges philosophy meant nothing to you to your east always maps of sciencethe only riverbed to burn your Borgesian skies your children smiled wife cooked the comedy of lifecarrying you offfather fathermy childhood wasn't eastward boundwhere did my shadows liedid their intentdissolve into nothingnessalight behind your eyesi happened to you like a holelike philosophyhere's to the worldyou could saygood earth gracewithout yet seeing the confetti of your irreversible blindnessshoweringin an epic future of your optic nerve politicsholeless yet meant nothing to youi remember youalways hoping for me to be dragged to the shrine of trutha click of dicei would be choked on aves & credosin my gutdid you seea song was always missing& how it blocked the sunfrom healing my scar marksshouldering the axi laid to the knotted rootsof my unforgiving lovesfather obstetricianmy body was found in your handsbefore i could speak for my soulor before you could teach my wet skullinnocencei always escaped the fading stairswhen you sangthe rest of the timei climbed & climbedcrossing myselfhow does it resemble deathyour ignoranceyou never followed its scentyou had to let it rotin the confines of my boneswhile i learned new waysto look at the window of ward number sixopen wide to the blueunder my scalp awake i kept un-balling a lifetime of wastein a boudoir of wasterubbing every eveninginto every evening nearbywatching you holding onto the day-reasoningyour oxygen cordha your books might have a perfect posebut never a stemroiling the narrative arcs of my literary exasperationyour voice reverberated infinitely as if in a plaster castfrom which i grewlike amnesia& then drifted all my lifelike a wave of saltunder an ornithic sky when you diethe time-exposer darknesswill defeat me in a smoothening game where the logic of regressioncomes from behindfather dear i wish you to knowour worlds outdistanced from our spleenspacked in dustwill have then nothing more to buybut the roots of palsied wings Poem by Debasis Mukhopadhyay Drawing by Janne Karlsson Debasis Mukhopadhyay is the author of the chapbook kyrie eleison or all robins taken out of context (Finishing Line Press, 2017). His poems have appeared in The Curly Mind, Posit, Words Dance, Yellow Chair Review, I am not a silent poet, New Verse News, Mannequin Haus, Thirteen Myna Birds, Anapest Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, With Painted Words, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for the Net. Debasis lives & writes in Montreal, Canada. Follow him at https://debasismukhopadhyay.wordpress.com/ or @dbasis_m on Twitter.