Pale
fingers exfoliate like hair
On
the edge of my amnesiac skin
Reaching
out
To
the dried carcass of the sky.
My
simple congenital thirst
Branches
out
Of
my pores
Shedding eyeless brown leaves
On
the famine
Of
my earth’s black mouth.
The
parched sky peels off
Like
a cheap blue paint
The
decrepit arteries of the dehydrated soil
Crumble
Like
the ruined drainages
Of
extinct civilizations.
My
stultified heart a palm
Whose
fingers have come off
Can
still hold nothingness
Like
Shiva’s translucent semen
Can
still keep count
Of
my deaths with its mute thumb.
I
have planted
The
stillborn foetuses
Of
my eyes
Near
the ancient roots of peepal
The
male rocky hands
of
the last earthquake
Will
awaken
Their
disfigured faces
They
can still startle you
By
sprouting from unlikely places.
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