Poetry

It was a searing moment in grueling
heat of your flesh, the racist attack had come
to surface, the blue eyes,

edible gold, in nights
the pink veil of the moon,
I will cut my wrist to pour out the pure vermillion;

a huge umbrella of hot kisses
dissolving the contaminated beads
of musk, like fever;

the smoke rolls down the hills
of collective guilt,
an anonymous warning;

the frozen voice opens
like a black tulip on baby ice,
down under goes the sun.


Satish Verma