Flying Woes

Satish Verma

The cat was finally 
After a professional cut. 

An infant injury 
of the cadaver, will not speak 

of the dead river, of elegy. 

No life― 
after the rite of passage. 
You are confined in a coffin 
buried in ice― 
in north and south. 

The space shrinks 
between the screams. 
A syncope overshadows the moon. 
The howling starts.