With some difficulty you accept
the live stream of life after you.
You have ceased to be, and now
you belong to a generic ‘no’
bunching around the hips of the existence.
She shimmies, discards it, a sweaty cloth,
in the laundry basket, and wears a new piece that,
because of her OCD, looks akin to the old one,
and thus you live on and do not
in the memories and in forgetting.
Outside two crows divide the shadow
and a poisoned vermin. Both the living
and the dead are filled with
the micro plastic you left behind.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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