Spring 2006 • Vol. XXVIII No. 2 Poetry |

Susurrus in the Skull

This is then the skull,I mean the one inside my head,I thought, looking at a drawingOf a skeleton in the dictionaryWhile I was searching "skewering,"A method of putting rebels to deathBy the Turks in Greece.I was stuck up at Sumire'sSudden disappearance in Murakami'sSputnik Sweetheart. Dropping the novel,Dropping the dictionary,I am insideMy skull—A living one's skull!One day it will indistinguishablyRoll among its kindOn our village cemetery.It might so happenI will fall into the handsOf a black magicianWho will perform secret ritesWith it once it is midnight,Or be a begging bowlOf a fake mendicant beggarWho will be a frightening enoughSight to elicit almsFrom my villagers.Or if it is worse in my fateIt will be still thereFor the Cordelia of my daughterTo pick it up blindfoldedAnd declare to the world,It is her father's.Will she still hear in itThe music of wordsI rehearsed to myselfBefore I put them on paper,Or the susurrus of my desireTo leave them once and for all?And my wife

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They Fall

By Rabindra K. Swain

This is then the skull,I mean the one inside my head,I thought, looking at a drawingOf a skeleton in the dictionaryWhile I was searching "skewering,"A method of putting rebels to […]

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