Or Perhaps a soul
by Yuyutsu Sharma
Plump drops
of an early morning rain
speckle
the dusty treetops
mottle
the cemented squares
of our simmering
courtyard
and in a second
turn into a demon
to start drumming
the kitchen roof upstairs
making any exchange
about the plague
caused by
this miniscule being
ravaging our lives
impossible,
a being so small
that doesn’t have
a shape
a face or a form
a head or a heart,
or perhaps a soul.
From a longer poem in progress, “The
Days of Great Gloom”