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
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