It Is a Joy to Be Hidden, but a Disaster Not to Be Found

Iva Ticic

— D.W. Winnicott


I am playing hide and seek with myself
in this house where the walls have started leaking
with hollow discontent.

There are so many spots
where I have hidden,
deceiving the opponent 
by singing in the oven
and cooking in the bathtub.

Ready or not:
here comes nothingness.



A bird in a golden cage
does not understand the value of gold.
It understands bars.

The lizards are watching us.

They open their mouths
with their soft moist triangles
sticking out.
While the rough skin,
which envelops their insides,
is peeling in layers.

Even the fish
keep our sticky indiscretions
to themselves.



The madman is fondling the genius
and they are both smoking pot on the roof
while the moon laughs at the exchange.

Because who wouldn’t want to smoke pot on the roof
of the madman’s house 
where the genius is paying rent.

Who wouldn’t want to 
see the light flicker at the tip of the joint
like a scorching small moon,
saluting its older brother 
in Morse code.



I am hiding 
on a skinny metal wire hanger
with a skeleton
whose ribs are poking me.

From behind,
he advises me
on how to be alone with myself
without needing a hiding place.

I take blind notes
with his bony middle finger.

His calcium knuckles
clank in the darkness
as we write.