Blood, again

blood again

The two hovering faces are white and brown.

They seem to look nice, saying, “we’re in your side.”

She aches; both her sides ache; bruises, clotted blood;

She sees them, two men with the force; denies to complain.

The trust has been lying killed, somewhere in her den.

>

Discharge means returning home, to the fear’s room,

where he may return for tearing her more.

But she won’t dial for force, at least not before

she has put six inanimate hates into him;

not before she has seen blood once again, not hers.

=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar  

Tasmanian Devil, dying

The smell of food is changing course with wind,

the weathercock seems to chase its own tail;

I can smell you too, watching for a devil.

What bullet does kill a devil, like me,

an innocent devil who does not know

that you call him so? Of course you won’t kill.

I am going to be killed anyway.

The pestilence, the nemesis, the plague…;

it has followed me; killed my friends and kin.

>

Do you care for a black stocky mammal,

with veracious hunger, obnoxious smell

and a facial tumor killing it?

Slowly?

Slowly.

Slower than the settlers who had wiped us

from the mainland. I am now Tasmanian,

a devil, dying, hungry and confused.

In your backyard I am watching for food.

=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar