Of the dead from ’85 Mukkadan visits, often.
We ride the blind-drunk Yezdi through town again,
midnight streets dark as altered blood.
I twist my wrist, we surge,
the rain slants down in cold sheets.
We laugh, louder than the bike’s beats.
We reach the place.
I must go on alone, he says, through cold and wet.
Lampless bike, lightless streets.
I will follow, I reply, a while later.