of the sort

What comes but poesies

for all the drinks refused

for the holes made in pretty heads

for over-baked bodies in bakeries

for almond-eyes bought by terror

for planting holy bombs by the river

for the arms' alms in the name of salwa judum

what grows but poesies

for today you can only wear cotton

for today you can only eat wheat

for today you can only sleep on earth

for after you get tired of gunning

(which you will)

you will come home

to my gossamer love lines
we all have battles to go to

what will remain but poesies?