Bloody Wells

the forgotten victims of

war

are not the dismembered parts on fields

the limbs strewn on yellow grass

twisted, gnarled, crooked pieces

not the detritus of village dreamscapes

new concrete dusted pale

quilted fabric snagged between the layers

not the incessant ethnic tension

the boots ringing in our ears for seventy-five years

flashes of metal under the broad and brown shoulder

they are hidden underground

bodies of dark, long, black braids

viscous hair in pools

the wells in Hindustan are stained red

of the blood from the jumps of

my ancestors

each one

nothing but

the prey of a soldier

the prey of the Indian uniform

the prey of the men who forced their way in.