CONSECRATED

It was a severed finger
in an envelope,
which wrote the letter
of consent.

Oh, my father
I am still crying
with loss of words
and figures.

Past the hills
I sent the secret of
my poems which did not tell
me the name of knife-

that was put in my back
by my unknown
brothers of shame. I will
now bleed all life.

It was only an
apology. I will still
walk with my toes drawing
the stripes of welts.

Satish Verma