On Sick Bed

Satish Verma

There were involuntary 
When you stretch at the sheets. 

Those were scorching 
questions, about my identity. 
I tell, I don't have any name. 

The body was partitioned. 
My head belongs 
to psalms, which I don't understand. 

My torso to the lost 
ship which went down 
without a torpedo. 

My legs were my own 
taking me, to places, where 
I did not want to go.