I walked through the trees, mourning. #Poetry

I looked brightness in the eye.
The iron, the tang of metal & rust.
 
I held a penny
on my tongue.
 
The taste shocked me,
its brown-gold sweet.
 
I roamed the field
angry & burned
 
asking bitter questions of a gun.
 
Dance is a body’s refusal
to die. But, oh, your gone hair.
 
The flame & orange flare.
Our forms, our least known selves —
 
barrel, sugar, & stench.
Your pleas, looped in writing,
 
the stutter of a body’s
broken grammar.

 

Follow Vishal Dutia on WordPress.com

© VishalDutia

%d bloggers like this: