A book, late at night
by Aditi Machado
[ poetry - january 09 ]
This one is a vulture.
I remember how it hovered above me;
its people - insects hiding in feathers.
I should not read
at night. It surprises you
into loneliness, like a bird
in a park, looking at your lunch.
This one is a vulture.
I am on my terrace,
with a glass of wine
and him, quietly
plucking at my flesh -
each word, a beak.
