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No Grand Landing
Folder:
Satish Verma It clings to you, like a liquid rock,
burns your skin. You get a chemosignal.
Tethered on a rope your clenched iron fist
remains dysfunctional. From the elite enclave
red smoke billows like a jinni unleashed
from the bottle.
A stray mortar sends olfactory fumes.
The land concludes a twist, becomes
unforgiving.The debris was a cluttered, goaded
inheritance. When it was not there I eat
the guns. Mission accomplished of death and
destruction, you start a prayer near an incapacitated tank.
Today, like everyday the war failed us.
Mother and son, father and daughter sleep in death’s embrace.
