Amit Parmessur hails from the heavenly island of Mauritius. Now 28 years old, he has been writing for the past 8 years. His work has appeared at places including Ann Arbor Review, Calliope Nerve, Censored Poets, Leaf Garden, Yes Poetry, Clockwise Cat, Puffin Circus, Gloom Cupboard, Heavy Hands Ink, Mad Swirl, Shot Glass Journal, and The Houston Literary Review. Visit his ezine.
The Sleeping Peacock
By Amit Parmessur
I discovered a majestic peacock
lying comatose in my littered backyard,
with wet fingerish twigs on its neck.
I took it home and colors spilled
onto my hands and poured into
my eyes as I wiped at teardrops.
I placed the peacock on my bed,
talking it back to life, stroking
its sleeping rainbows, its inert fan
of moist quills.
A few perfect circles were drawn
on the bedsheet as the bird tried
to stir and open its eyes. The night
was black when it died.
Every day I now dream of huge
peacocks pecking at my heart,
the weight of the birds pushing
me into the colorful abyss opening
in my bed; my cries killed by bloody
fingers creeping around my parched throat.
This is touching. Your description made this poem come off the page and fill the room.
Colorful and poignant.