by Amit Parmessur
On her way to the scarred cliff she
smelled the burning sunflowers again.
She saw a wheelchaired centenarian,
his head hanging with warm snow;
he gave her a rope and a sword.
Once there, she quickly rubbed
her hands in the dust before choking,
slitting and dumping dexterously
her dead heart into the wild wind
for play, pleasure and peace.
Her eyes did not drip.
She sacrificed many more body
parts as grey smoke from nearby
camp fires wreathed slowly up.
She relished the struggle for breath.
Till, renewed, everything crept back
rolling like shiny drums to tell her
that life isn’t a sacred book,
or a scared feather.
She dug a lush grave
for her tears and became a
spectacle for the white clouds.