Sabyasachi Nag

Rapture


When they turn on the cyanide
we will drink yesterday’s stale absinthe
and pretend it’s nectar.

When they light up the grand yagna
I will bury my face in your hair, and smell
the ylang-ylang in your shampoo.

When they harvest red, blue, black bodies
from fields, rivers and wells
I will lie naked. Your body will fill the void.

When they stop the soul with the silk pillow
we’ll glide out of the window
into the folds of the starry night.

Our eyes stabbed by grass blades.
We will dream through perforations
of our coffins, deathless fireflies.