Cut open the apple –
hold the charred bank-note
in between your fingers;
in the imprints left behind by obliterated numbers,
track your way back to an orchard.
To trail after erasure – this
Way or that – is to reside
With the possibility of a slaughter.
A genocide invents its own unnoticed
rhythms – the jangling of coins where
the slurping of tongues should be, a skin
bereft of bones, the sound
of million footsteps stitching shut the barbed wire.
That interdependent admonishment – an effort
to stare into your own eyes
through the screen of a salon-window
is bound to end in a vanquished screech.
The barbed-wire furrow is a famished
mother, kept alive
through half-propped guns.
Cut open the apple –
Chew into shards the cauterized maps.
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