by Rudri Bhatt Patel

by Douglas Campbell


Sun-filled days
are blatant lies,
illusions or mirages.
Unreal brightness. Sunlight
has no substance for me
to hold onto. When my hands
reach out the skin
of my fingers comes back
burnt and blistered.
Sun’s warmth deceives,
is transient;
only the pain remains.

Storm filled days
are real and honest.
I feel the constant
rain invade my skin,
the erosion in my throat,
which leaves me coughing,
the fever that spreads scars
beneath the shadows of my eyes.
Evidence is abundant;
I cannot question what
the storming sky reveals:
the biting wind, its teeth.


The Warm Winter’s Wolves

The warm
slender teeth,
of wolves breathing,
slide between
my collar
and my neck;
slide down
my narrow spine
wrapping vertebrae
within cold stones
of snow.

The burnt
empty ashes,
of wolves green eyes,
flow through
my lips
my brittle teeth
wrapping my tongue
within dry blankets
of frost.

The soft
gentle jaws,
of winter’s wolves,
tear silence
from my ears
from my frozen eyes;
tear away
my brain’s hollow scream
wrapping my heart
within quiet vines
of fear.