bird song, london underground via the feather collective
the sweep of my hand lights
the slow fire of a blush
spreading over searing scars,
awakening pain folded in
three neat squares. i don’t
linger but it’s too late, and as
my hand trails unseen paths,
whole and unbroken, you
in your meticulous way
fold the old horrors, and
when i return, i find
three neat squares.
© Anuradha Prasad, 2016
zennfish 