Kathmandu sojourn

Carsten Smith-Hall | January 28, 2016
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Broken stonework, sharp edges. I feel them

cutting my cheeks and chest. Maybe

someone took my legs? I feel cracked

at the edges and wheeze grit into my

lungs. Black. Dark. Silence. I shake

a little but not by myself. I think.


I am awake. I know it. How did I

get from my house to the cold earth?

Where is my wife. I’m embraced

by crumbled bricks, squeezing

blood out of me, cold sucking

on my bones, not making a sound.


No. I am dead. This is my stone cage

forever. This is it for me, no going back,

too much greed and lust. I deserve this.

Rolling. Careless. Laughter. I’m not

alone. The rock demon has me, for

keeps, in his soul-devouring belly.


I do not move. The juices do, they

are moving, flowing mud-like over

my face. I lick the juices. Again. They

taste like gravel and rotting soil,

sandy ooze clinging to my uvula

as I swallow, to become a stone.


Here, here, come, more diggers here! 


Those waves. Wide black river, I

swim. Yes, the shore is there, not

too far away. Light. Ha, ha. I’ve crossed

to the other side. Maybe the demon

didn’t get me, I’ll be a stone, a round

one on the shore. With the others.


Take the hand. Also the other one. Pull! 


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