Satish Verma
Ironbound
Last night a dream,
died in infancy, when you
were drawing a circle
of pain in rainbows.
The hurt of blind alleys,
and the rebounding image
of burnt-out candles in night.
The full moon will only enhance─
the burns. I do not want to talk
about the divine will of making
a baby, out of willing or unwilling
surrender. Lines are blurred.
You want to ask the moon─
Are you convinced, it was not
a rape? A butterfly is snuffed out
in your palm, you do not know.
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