Poetry

September 1, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo

 

By

Aakriti Kuntal

 

 

2 full-cups of compassion

 

 

Shells form

thin vapor lines hurting the air

 

there is too much moisture

an indignant condensation of all life

 

Men, women, and children Run

their tongues wide, oven red,

lifted, strangulated,

a union of cries

sweltering under a weighted sun

 

I am here

threads of cold lanterns swirling around the index

words useless as dangling spoons

cotton rings in my mouth

whale blue teeth, language rinsing

 

I am here

my palms growing warmer, 2 full cups of compassion

 

Somewhere a land

detaches from the naval and murder

occurs in the throat, like a shared heritage of loss inhabits the blood

 

Limbs bring only more limbs

climb together to form a reddened swan on the highest mountain

and bow to all lands, far and far

 

bombs flying

pretty planes

little boys in motion blowing up like vowels under tongues

 

Blowing, blowing,

gas burner tickling my chin

 

I, calculating

the numbness of loss between nourished fingers

 

I, folding poems

inside my colored thigh,

their luster ambushed my receding sunlight

 

I, sitting in a circle of skin,

round and supple

Emptying my 2 full cups of compassion

 

 

 

 

Syria’s Mouth

 

 

Syria’s mouth is like

that of a woman, a channel of diagonals,

wavering cheeks, one portion is a tent, pitched

to the most sacred sky of red

 

Everyone likes to invade.

A haven? Strangely she will die a virgin of sorts

never knowing love that is

 

Everyone likes to watch, spectate,

observe and pity.  A muse?

It’s a TV channel, running,

foaming, gluey tar,

electric lines of RGB

Nothing streams

 

A mouth that swallows hands

flesh over flesh, leaping, color burning color,

transfusion, drums, ships, rubble,

pitter-patter, whoosh, tick

TOCK, BAM

 

It’s a cacophony.

 

Syria’s mouth is very much of a woman

Her scaled breaths scorch the phallus sky,

sagging leftover skin wandering in heaps

Then someone says  

‘Perhaps she invited it

 

 

 

 

 

Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Kuntal resides in Bengaluru, India. A Network Engineer, she writes to better understand the world around her. Her work has been published in 1947 Literary journal, Duane’s PoeTree Blog, Indian Periodical and Visual Verse among others.

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