Vikas K. Menon

O Pilgrim of coin and rupee,

say that
each open palm was a lonely temple.

Say that
the last leper lived in a hovel of wind and wood.

Tell us that your hand was empty.  
Describe his unquiet mouth,

his glee like clowns juggling knives
with Cheshire cat grins,

his bald laughter like a nude father,

screams
from the closet,

a night haunted by sweat.  

Say that
there was a chasm in your throat.  

Say
that day, all day,

milk soured to curds in your mouth