A Poem by Kushal Poddar

Russian Roulette With Toy Revolvers

A bar. The red in Tim’s mother’s glass
disappears. Hit me again, she says.
A bar. Tim shall look after himself.

A blur. The tire swing replaced every summer
wets the muddy ground with its rain
soaked shadow. Tim blurs away in
his eyes. I am late. I should be there
with those underaged beers I promised.

We have toy revolvers that look like
a heady mix of black and clotted blood.


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