On The Death Of A Friend

Satish Verma

how it was, you died 
wearing your shoes? The 
jesamins will meet you― 
in the backyard. 

The stains are unwashable; 
like pomegranates bursting 
open on my chest. The 
screams still run after me. 

How do I get you midway― 
in anonymity. I never wanted 
you to go, my make-believer. 
It was not homozygosity. 

Your face swims like 
a dragonfly on the interface 
of tears. There was no re-entry 
in the frame of life.