Poetry

Invasion was thin 
like a feather's fall 
on the mirror. 
 
Only bride will know, 
the rose petals were 
meant for unthinking. 
 
Scattering rice 
to dig out the tools 
of prehistonic man. 
 
The previous night 
I taught myself 
how not to peel the oranges― 
 
with bare hands, 
in terror, when there was 
endless path to unknown.