I Love the Dark

When night is done
I will search the alleys in fear,
for light has wounded
more of this body
than I can count.
 
A sharp line of it
falls on my shoulder
at the turning of the crossroad—
a flash of unease,
comfort,
and suspicion.
Then comes the hunt
for a safe wall,
and the hiss of bullets.
 
In the heart without light,
light means the scar of blood,
the pulse of insecurity.
Light means
the anger of native police,
light means
administration, reservation,
caste, industry, capital;
light means
democracy, protest,
the seizure of government.
 
I search only for the dark,
muttering mad phrases
in Amlashol, Belpahari,
and every other corner
where the light does not go,
where lives
waste away in silence,
where dreams fall from their stems
and the dry red soil
bristles with quiet threat.
 
There I remain
in deepest secrecy.
I love the dark,
I live in the dark—
and all the friends of light
are my enemies.