Poems – Moumita Mitra
Fevered
My limbs are dead
They suck honey from the bees
And jump into the moving pain like fever
My limbs ache to death
Yet then here’s this small glass
From which a sound emits like
Distrust.
I’ve been through it
Heaving as a dead man’s chest ‘d —-
There’s no way back;
Words vomit as though
They are Blood, Mud and Earth.
Rain drenches you to destitution.
And then there’s sleep — long,
Alcoholic, numb like a dream.
I walk through.
I’ll walk through.
And the muddy silence ‘ll be all over.
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