By Amit Parmessur
We scratched the skin of our pasts
and the hills of love erupted.
Pine trees grew on the hill slopes
and their needle leaves were like
the words we used to sew differences.
Our old tears met, inventing an ocean
of future stories and childhood joy.
I once tried to learn needlework
and you Hindi. I could only thread—
you could only swear.
Let’s scratch our hill skins into mountains.
I hope you teach me some needle
magic and how to make the guitar talk,
and we’ll learn a bit more
about the dangers of being loved again. - - -
Aged 28, Amit Parmessur is from Mauritius. He has been published in around 75 magazines since starting to submit his poems late 2010. Dead Snakes, Heavy Hands Ink, Leaf Garden Press and The Houston Literary Review are some of the places where he has appeared. He currently edits The Rainbow Rose at http://therainbowroseezine.blogspot.com/.
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