• Priya Tamang


T’was a cemetery cocooning countable coffins, and the eerie air smelled of acid, the caustic kind that reminds of tart soup with no salt.

Satin lily blades shaded my embossed name in springtime gravestone. Shapes of chiseled initials contour with downhearted dead weight of the love that killed me – a cold corrosion etched obituary.



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