Poetry
Batik Therapy A winding Riau road and an intense cat surrounded by butterflies and flowers, soothing blue with magenta and lemon swirls. I wait for the fabric to reveal itself boiled to permanence the magic of wax resist the ghosts of textile fixatives. Instead of an imprint resembling the posted-on-the-wall model, I get undefined colors bleeding into one another a crooked smirk trapped inside a downward spiral of blackened spikes while a couple of desperate butterflies stay put unable to fly away with their half-made wings. I do what I have to do to end their misery, push the fabric back to the stained dark bottom of the drum and drown them, while everybody else’s creations hang from the washing lines flapping in the sea breeze flaunting their colors banners at the fair wind’s puppet show squared two-sided happiness with catty smiles. Sometimes there are no do-overs. NEW READER MAGAZINE | 191