What’s Being Dead

My fears: the screaming vultures; splitting each part of the body for the whole, there, my heart of its attachment for flesh/ beats once more –

Fir trees look up to the blank space.

A turbine of wind presses my body

and draws a caesura –

Fresh blood/ vermillion coloured kite

throw up to the sky.

The trapped wind sighs

against my half eaten form.

The kite leans on another kite

unattached of strings

against the blood stained sun…

Do vultures indulge in eating away dead

Hearts and hands in your land?

                                                                                           ~Ritamvara Bhattacharya 


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