In a Tent Village

you walk on wodden legs a lump in breast, though benign but kids are abducted from wombs; a road map is spread on the dirty mat for finding the missing link, while a solid-fuel missile was ready to be launched scarlet lips for décor, unwanted hairs on chin popping out, archipelago of hawks in brain: the vulnerable, tending their wounds, hiding in tunnels of shame; I like black berries in sleep, cannot listen my own voice, have become blind for my own hands dried stigmas of crocus will color my obscene poverty orange-yellow, slum rain, no place to sit, old memories are coming back I am unstuck from a wheelchair SATISH VERMA