narrow tarred roads winding around black-soiled fields lush with fresh saplings of a ground-cover crop probably peanuts
i am surprised to find on a plateau deep in my brain a tree with pink flowers sending petals to a cellphone tower
(but who’s making calls in my brain?)
large tracts of my brain are given over to yellowing bulrushes stretching out to the horizon dotted with short prickly trees growing on small earth mounds
there are fields in my brain being worked on by broken women with magical, healing vaginas and large herds of nilgai sit in the shade of babul trees watching the women
bright mustard fields grow at the feet of gnarled rocky cliffs on the edges of small, sleepy towns with names like ‘Dumariya’
There are deep gullies filled with weeds and clear water running in shallow streams and on the forested banks of the vast river running though my brain lives a woman made of two syllables
she suddenly gets up lifts her shirt and rubs her breasts against the smoothened bark of the ancient tree that grows deep inside my brain.