Poetry

It was a taxidermal view
thousands of fawns on the lake.
Can you handle the die-off
of the whole truth?
I have nowhere to go. Genes are
turning on, turning off. Bare hands
holding the bruises.

Hungry, but cannot eat
looking at the tattoos on the back of
starving children.
I am sick these days in the midst of glory
and shame. Faithlessness is a prize
wrapped by shadows. The snakes
are climbing on the walls.

Human things, like chimps
kissing and hugging to calm down.
in memoriam of a lost tribe.
The body of a chaste god
lies buried under the debris of unholy secrets.
Homeless I wander, beneath the high sky.



Satish Verma