Poetry

Death sits in wait
in the empty valley
of your sleeper cell.

The confession of a guilt
liberates the funeral
of a martyr.

Give me your breasts
for a modular test.
Don’t let the milk go waste.

Your pearly teeth
were biting negativity of the red
chilli of dark sex

before the sunrise
in a kingdom of debris
of long names.


Satish Verma