and the blood was staining the snow
in Kashmir
a woman with periods cooking death over a slow fire
winter flow
What was I to say?
Who was I to expiate?
I remember:
before I was three
maybe I was happy
and then there was a period of some
eight to nine years
in between
when God used to speak
to me
Hope was in the air
like cotton trees
with soft, white, cotton, in the pods
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