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Lost My Name
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Satish Verma Did you taste the ejecta
after a sacred ritual of exploding
a makeshift bomb in a crowded market?
I am worried.
I am becoming death, curling backward.
The wood spirits have started a fire dance.
The healing, yes, it comes from the blood
of steel, they claim, the blackness of a hole
has a purity.
Hunger starts a riot of lewdness in the
ribs of an empire. A skull on the hill
betrays a slaughter of young boys.
The makers of AK-47 were repenting,
for the brutal aura. I have started
telling lies.
