Innocence
by Samartha
Vashishtha
She
came to my corner of the room, and it was dark. I tucked my tummy in
made the parallels on my chest look like
some distant siblings of stone.
She was all hips, all breasts, all eyes bulging out of space.
I was the butcher’s knife in waiting; shooting sharply
through the calm, thin, wet air of July.
We knew it was one of those trespasses we would never give a name.
She came to my corner of the room. It was dark as if
the dark was not the absence of light
but a way of living; a metaphor beyond meaning for her.
