Kishmish

This becomes from this hour.

Our rivers and this old uncertainty

Trees, ours alone, for our roofless

Home to return to someday.

To hang like bats from its pure physicality.

Who comes from that tree.

Of leaves old as the sea lions in Alaska.

Roots, ours alone, past less.

Perils, a silver gerbil I own from the mess

Of ruins.

On full moons inside, readily blooming.

The Neela Kuringi. Blinded as the

Streetlights and electric posts. Much

Brazen I take the same route under all skies.

If that is a skinless viper, slicing the grass. Double

The vitamins, I hear; then nod; servilely.

With the same man. Cold, bearded, skinned alone.

Flute, and razor blades to shave. Almonds, in packets.

Scrapped with the Portuguese in harbors near

cargo train stations.

Skinning a dear, under the bat’s tree, watched.

By only the sky and neighbors under the earth.

The fire begins, before the maggots do.

Amal Joseph Mathew is a first-year communication student from the Christ ( Deemed To Be University). He enjoys reading poetry and listening to Frank Ocean. His poetry and photography have been published in the Nether Quarterly and Iris Journal respectively. He is 19, hails from Adoor, Kerala.