Walk in Dark Rain | Amit Parmessur

Condemned as a somnambulist,
she stole away to the roundabout.
She walked about it a first time and
flung her slippers away in feigned fury.
Another rapid round and she shed
her white pyjamas with pink flowers.

Black night invented a silence
that could terrify any other silences.
Crooning narcissistically, she completed
a third round, losing her golden bangle,
her bare thighs rippling imperiously
as the mute rain worshipped her lust.

After the next round
she saw a holy shadow eastward.
And next round she gushed forth as
her iron bosom betrothed the icy wind.
Just like a spotless cheetah
there was nothing on that visage.

A half lap more, she lay lazily on
the wet grasss, excessively pleased.
A fiery creeping thing came from
an undressed tree and stung her.
Dawn, the women envied her peace;
men in khaki dreaded her gory navel.

Since then I’ve stopped mourning
my neighbour’s demise; mistaking
the moon for a milky fruit I sing:
Let’s fly, woman, in our wild dinghy.

Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur has appeared in several literary magazines, including Transcendence, Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Black-Listed Magazine, Kalkion and Red Fez. He was nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Web. Hailing from Mauritius he also writes in Creole. Sometimes he just wants to give it up all and become a billionaire.