by Kushal Poddar
From the skin taunt in pregnancy I sniff and snort dreams. Silence of pandemic whistles and pisses against houses by the main street. Moon duplicates soon. Only this indicates a level of high. What's the word for a baby in the womb? L' aurore. You say. Fun should be a necessity, I say. Nothing works as conjunctive between those statements. The skin glows in powdered moonlight. We fall asleep. Ice-holes
An author and a father, Kushal Poddar edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’.
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