Anti-national

The weight of iron blue hangs in silence, slicing breeze, tracing a wound in the sky above. Bullets towards vanishing points where heat lives inside swirling circles on top of mountain fragrance rising from good-natured leaves. I follow the scar, stretching to hold the vista on my tongue, sucking up the path thirstily. The tree wall advances, eating up slithering strips of naked earth — spaghetti slurp and tamarind pesto.

Border frontier checkpost inviting me to surrender to music carried in dying language. I feel the squelch of subsonic whispers running underneath my bare feet. Burying my toes into mid-afternoon warmth, ready to leave this space of silence. Across the skeleton spine I inhale the sleepy scent of enslaved carbon.

Jangal Santhal, wild versus docile, smile versus projectile; Naxalbari resistance reaches out from Hatighisa, offering her visions and tears, remembrance for the fallen.