Thursday, March 10, 2016

Kushal Poddar writes

This Silent Thing

Today I may hold the pigeons of my breath

in my lungs and let my head sink
down my throat to the bottom of my heart.

My shoulders’ quiet disappearance will go unnoticed.
My spine was killed long before when
you knew about the venom it kept.

Today here is no war.
My birds long to leave for the following present.
My bone flowers bloom in white noise.

One tracker pursues love in my guts
and meets the shit near the end.

 Cassandra Golds -- Sonia Kretschmar


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