Tuesday, 1 September 2015

Poetry 2015, FeaturedWriter Amit Shankar Saha

A Killing

The stork is a tall bird,
The pinkness of its neck
Is a hue on your cheeks.
The soft web between the
Thumb and the forefinger,
When cut, is also pink.
I have sighted a stork,
Cut the flesh of my palm.
The stork flies a distance,
Accruing migrant miles,
Like you across borders.
There are lines on my palms,
Intersecting like roads,
Where you do not travel.
I have captured a stork,
Merged the lines in a fist.
When hunting for its prey
The stork hangs its head like
The hair from your head hangs.
But the palms of my hands
Move to hunt its own prey,
Signing on death warrants.
I have murdered a stork,
Attained rigor mortis.

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