I killed a buffalo
fifteen years ago, but even now
those torturous hooves chase me,
making me run in my sleep.
I still see a steady flow of blood
when the maddened beast
gored through man and god and
concrete.

I had been a devil of five
when I stole that needle
from granny’s unfinished Gopi
and hid it between hay and fun
thinking what could a thread alone do
without a needle to push it through?

How could I have known
that devil of a needle
would enter buffalo’s intestine
ripping it apart with pain?

Today,
blood and the blue choking colour
of the dying buffalo
still haunts my dreams,
I hear the sound of buffalo bones
crumbling within me.