When I go home
I wash my claws,
over kitchen sink
I wash his intestine
Till unclogged
When I reach home,
I am drowned
Blood-bathed, like a newborn.
My sins stay stuck under my skin
Every drip is purge
I am willing (carve my soul)
To be born again/ with
a moral slate of a neonatal
Shards of glasses
Piercing my skin
Meteor shower
Falling onto my face
Drops evaporate from my collarbones
There is an itch on the back of my palm
to remember the flesh of you, devoured.
Asmita Mehefin likes to look at the moon and write poems and compare how the celestial bodies are similar to the web of life inside our own bodies.
