By Ramsha Ashraf
Pakistan
Picking on the dead flesh
The dead writes on the dead’s body.
He inks the pilgrimage to find sanctuary
From that dull, dismissive, charcoal night
Toward the afternoons of extravagant delight,
Not realizing, maybe in a desire of not wanting to realize,
That the pale flesh does not breathe, move and respond
To his elongated fingertips, his unfamiliar eyes move but do not
see,
His finger-pores leave messages but withhold his characteristic
warmth of oblivion.
Delightful, it could be, if the flesh-bearer could, again, sense the
monotonous ink of love.
