Baani Minhas

Clutching My Umbrella, I Walk Home

I detest the itchy, debilitating lava that oozes through my veins,
hauling along every memory fashioned in its merciless mold.

It freely seeps from my limbs until I am a helpless soldier in retreat.
A paralyzing primal instinct that I cannot afford to serve.

Desperate imaginations of packing it into my appendix
to be removed, thinking I’d walk away lighter.

If only it could take a nap, drift along a cool
lazy river, and trust my control.

Long enough that I can wrap up my spring cleaning,
this man has seen enough of my seasons in this mutant fragile form.

I just need to release a few of the words chained and shackled
together in my throat, yanking against my spine to be unfettered.

The metal links will come apart, scattering into bullets,
clinking as they hit cold floor, then finally a crisp silence.

He’ll be the aftermath of a small victory in a quiet war, the true struggle.
One of the bodies strewn on the floor to be dragged away.

All before I have something else to fear,
and the lava flows again.

Before I succumb to it
once more.