Halls of ochre butcher as they chase
One drop.
Not one insect spared but splits
In parching,
Sound of dry grass crackling,
Eyes thaw in ochre dust.
Like a dwarf sits the cactus.
Awkward limbs but affection in the interior,
Soft pulpy green-walled translucency
Where the moisture drips.
But without,
Its challenged thorn-lusty prurience grapples
With the desert’s grip.
Hate is an outer armour,
Love’s moisture is in the stem
And there is proof for when
The desert awakens in the rain,
Bulbs of chlorophyll
Explode in monsoon blooms
The milk pulp making fissures on the ragged skin;
Blood red hues, hibiscus violet
Flowers fed on milk. Then
How large the hidden heart
Bandaged in bristling brutality
For survival.
And now is the time of seed’s revival;
Another need brings the dwarf’s art.
