How a poem processes a terror attack

for the jawans killed in Pulwama

Last evening I drove past the line of crows
realized that at the end of the street stood four hooded men

The burning wood left tears, the lamp post trembled
in the rings of smoke

Anger mislaid brick over brick

From the threshold, I could see the dead
one after another fall into the white crack of light that
poured through the gutter grates

With my palms smeared in ash, I went to complete
what the fire began

The message to the gods coiled through the viscosity of air
hung between the two worlds

The universe is an elongated throat covetous of the farthest constellation
Call it home even when the meteors pulse
implode the cells in the brain.

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