Satish Verma

It was the frontal assault 
of brutal summer. 
I waited for the rain 
to come and fall on my neck. 

There was no grief 
between the aches. 

In starlight, flitting 
around in bushes, 
you take me in twilight. 

The vernacular nirvana 
begins, till my moons squeeze. 

It was not a stabbing 
wound, to be picked up 
by a poem in distress. Light 
on light will speak 

of femineity in dark.