Copihue Poetry

Forms insist I tick “unmarried.”
Like I was married and un-ed it.

Not un-ed it like ended it like divorce,
but un-ed like undid it.

Like unwrapped a ceramic dinner set
to disenthral gift paper of erring fold lines.
Like unstitched buttons ruining symmetry.
Like unsent an embarrassing Insta DM.
Like neutralized excess salt in curry.

I was never married, even to myself,
like that Gujarati lady from the news.

Forms insist I lie.
Governments like lies.

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1: “Gujarat Woman Marries Herself In 1st Instance Of Sologamy In India,” NDTV.

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