Soraya 34.

Anis Shivani

I am stevedore to unknown sterilized silver

chemists, stickler for stigmaria shocked

into being by text-wrapped sticky Thalia.

Soraya, tetrarch of mash note terreplein,

you reinforce the rules of kriegspiel with a

light hand, my kyrie spreading like kudzu

regardless of Kshatriya boundaries. (Kulaks

always knew just enough Kremlinology.)

Laic Lok Sabha performs long division

over necessary neckcloths, the Near East

a near gale, the revolt of Soraya’s ullage

a felix culpa curving to the bend of massifs.

Carrier pigeons alight on carousels facing

labor camps lit by Lahori lacquerwork.

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