A Family Dust

Satish Verma

A thirsty town fails, harvesting the moon, 
and turns into a vast lake of tears. 
They were fighting for their right to remain 
poor and hungry. It was a fractured 
amnesia in the pit of flesh. 

Was it a pink rose? No one had planted 
a kiss on the lips of a thorn. An unbuttoned 
triangle snaps the cold and opens the thighs 
of a tulip valley. Drop by dropp honeydew 
dances into a hairy lap. 

The shooting stars go into trance, multiply 
the intimate minutes and indulge in 
sprouting the horns. The longest night feels 
betrayed and beseeches foremothers to 
conceive again. 

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