heavy rain from a darkening sky
and buildings  fall

no one knows what will be left
running down the nowhere
where dreams die
on a metal tray
at the hospital morgue

trouser leg pushed up
the search for black ink
and a child's name
begins

perhaps the arm
the hip

the back?

and the children plead,
lie to me,
tell me,
i won't die,
today

and the silent screams
are left in an eternity of why?

foul and bitter hearts
will prevail
on both sides,
this is the poetry of death

Unmasking to remain
human. Listen, listen to my bane.
I am neither living, nor dead.

I am left with what I am not.
after you walked away with Agni.
My footfalls resound in water.

I am taking care of
lovebirds. They miss you when calls
don't come and food runs short.

I want to see the northern lights
but I cannot say why

it is said that sometimes
if conditions are right
you can see them from here

but it never seems to work
for me

even if the sky is clear
I cannot see them
when I am told I might

others say they have seen them here
I don’t think I believe them

some set a camera
on very long exposure
to take their picture

I can’t stare at the sky
for a very long time
all at once
like a camera

maybe I want to see them
because I haven’t seen them before

there are other things I want to see
but never have

like the life I was meant to have
with you

maybe if I’d had
a better camera

~
In the mist of late night solitude,
                 from a mislaid plateau,
                 with a suitcase full of sparks

She observes constellations
        reflected as little needy eyes,
                        peering down at her

They could be midnight directives,
       postcards from distant nebula
                            suspended in gaffa

       "Ne t'enfuis pas..." She exhales

Still she wonders:

        will her children grow to love
          their perfect machines more
                                    than they love
                  their imperfect mother?
~

My heart screams
Sorrow-filled moans.
They stay aching in my chest.
They beat at the dam
Behind my eyes
Begging me to shed tears over you.

I don't.

The days,
All the days,
Even those
Inlaid with light,
Shutter closed,
As days do,
With harsh fray
Of night

My life, she said, is so akin
To a twisted, knotted piece of yarn
Tied around an unknown object
Hanging from a broken limb
Blown by whirling, dusty wind
That never ever makes a sound.
                           ljm