I see
a man in a chair,
his hands tied to the skies.

I see
a multiple-choice question
blocking my view and assumptions
of a scarred face I had never seen before.

I see
three tiny ants
climbing that invisible face
as if he were Mount Sinai demystified
and religious views were legalese decomposed.

I see
dark, ominous clouds
on the mountains and in his eyes
becoming tears, gushing down as streams,
flowing like saltwater in a fresh, cold bloodstream
in which the ants go swimming; their hands reach out to his.

I see
their practised butterfly strokes
and their masterstroke with oxygen masks;
They are swimming inside the man once again,
his hands tied to the skies; the dark clouds above
are multiple choice questions someone’s about to ask;
each answer leading to one form of castration or another.

I see
bombs, carefully timed to precision,
Falling all over the valley of the fettered man,
scarring a manhood forever; charring him too with blemishes,
and the three ant-men who survived the massacre quite by chance,
attempting to climb his face, trying to save their own darkened faces
by taking one step further each turn – one step up until they reach his hands
tied to the skies, crossing it and entering heaven without shrapnel on their skins.

Abhishek Sengupta is imaginary. Mostly, people would want to believe that he writes fiction & poetry which borders on Surrealism and Magical Realism, and is stuck inside a window in Kolkata, India, but he knows none of it is true. He doesn’t exist. Only his imaginary writing does, and have appeared or are forthcoming in Outlook Springs, Liminality, Thrice Fiction, Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal, and others. If you’re gifted, you may also imagine him in Twitter @AbhishekSWrites or in his hypothetical website.