Forever Bleating – Anuja Ghimire

In Octobers of permanence, I tried to run past three tributaries of fresh blood. Straight, steep street to my house. Left, a temple. Right, a bazaar. Gatherers never changed their mind when the goat’s head was still on its neck. What turned me to glance at disasters? Our eyes always met when the knife was sliding. Rubber soles far from the red river of white and brown goats. Red is a primary colour even when watered down. My ribcage is filled with carcass. Only one heart is beating.

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