Satish Verma

Sometimes the unholy fears 
come obliquely― 
from the scorpions. 

Tongue tastes the salt of spilled 
hate. You execute the hooded anxieties, 
creating a cadaver pyramid. 

Stich-open-stitch. Cobra 
in the bush. Awesome colors of eyes 

I am not going to kiss 
the chillies. Burning hot lips. 
The contours were enticing. 
I shut my eyes for a weird encounter. 

The floors pulverized. I still 
stand in mud, on my own.