Poetry

After the rains, 
it was a full moon 
in summer night. 
 
Fleeing from a subculture- 
of violence, she was 
nestling in the arms of clouds. 
 
A lost killer swearing 
with bruised arms, 
raking up the old vendetta- 
 
beheads the phallic 
image. A brutalizing 
score, when we were celebrating 
 
the moon’s arrival. There was 
no impropriety in spilling. 
Sperm was the conjugal bliss.