Issue 14

As if shot
through my head I sit up
pitch black.

I try to remember the rain.
I rummage for my eyes to check
for sweaty armpits, legs and fingers,
I grope for a mind pick
to dislodge the decaying
leftovers of a stale nightmare
stubbornly stuck in the crevices
of my brain which stutters
like the ancient kerosene generator
in throbbing gasps before
dying with a gentle hiss
like vanishing droplets of water
on red hot burners
in treeless highway dhabhas.

I close my eyes and hope for the memory of rain.