we are a land of thunderstorms.
a sea wind from the bay in the middle of
summer scorch, and then
it rains.
we are a land of floods
the river flows over itself
the floodwater stays for days after
and it is what remains after the storm is over
the one tree standing when the village has washed away
into the ocean.
only the dead float up the river weeks after
and the fisherwomen put the end of their saris
to their nose.
the summer scorch returns
and life goes on.
YOU ARE READING
Doux
Poetrythe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
