The Passed Note Issue 1 June 2016 - Page 46

Kushal Poddar

This Silent Thing

Today I may hold the pigeons of my breath

in my lungs and let my head sink

down my throat to the bottom of my heart.

My shoulders’ quiet disappearance will go unnoticed.

My spine was killed long before when

you knew about the venom it kept.

Today here is no war.

My birds long to leave for the following present.

My bone flowers bloom in white noise.

One tracker pursues love in my guts

and meets the shit near the end.