Satish Verma
Heterosexuality
Were you ready for a virginity test
to cross the umbrella of harpoons.
A chilled moon
will welcome you after slaying
the hot sun in the valley
of gods. A schism scoops
ignominy. Seeing the lights
which were not there. Almost
sexy, the sky pretends to unrobe.
No weeping. A Caucasian brings
red grapes for a naming
ceremony of black password,
searing the age of complicity.
A rocket propelled grenade
is going to blast a whisper.
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