STYES

It was a searing moment in grueling 
heat of your flesh, the racist attack had come 
to surface, the blue eyes, 

edible gold, in nights 
the pink veil of the moon, 
I will cut my wrist to pour out the pure vermillion; 

a huge umbrella of hot kisses 
dissolving the contaminated beads 
of musk, like fever; 

the smoke rolls down the hills 
of collective guilt, 
an anonymous warning; 

the frozen voice opens 
like a black tulip on baby ice, 
down under goes the sun.

Satish Verma