like overcooked sausage
inside its casing,
and flooded the financial capitals
of the US, UK, and India
over the years—painting it
the color of vermillion
running through a Hindu bride’s hair
while I sat with a dead pen,
tapping my limbs,
hoping they would witness blood
drip from the fountain pen
and help me write a poem
about the mystique of outer space.
But how can a poet betray
words that take the form of tears?
How can a poet ignore
knowing what’s happening on earth,
write about the unknown aspects of outer space?
Sweta Srivastava Vikram (www.swetavikram.com) is an award-winning writer, two times Pushcart Prize nominated-poet, novelist, author, essayist, columnist, and educator who was born in India, and spent her formative years between India, North Africa, and the United States. You can follow her on Twitter, @ssvik, or Facebook.