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Rabindra K SwainKatherine Barham Rabindra K. Swain


All the lies you have repeated to yourself,
all the answers you have sought,
the flaring, the rage, helplessness
giving way to the quintessential wreck,
this night grows inconsolable
like that bewitching red fruit
for its ugly black inside—
what's its name? No use
asking it. It is very much there,
the rotting of the core.
It seeks the way of a pebble
sinking to the bottom.
It is sick of the heart
to go on asking questions.