this poem is for 24-year-old dharmapuri ilavarasanwith three autopsies on your handsome bodythis poem is for 29-year-old mudassir kamranpeople in kashmir deserve the truththis poem is for 19-year-old gurvinder singhyes, it matters if the fascists shot you deador drove into youthis poem is for 22-year-old badru mandviembalmed in salt & herbs, shrinkwrapped in plasticby your people who wait for years to clear your namethis poem is for all the parentswho make mighty states trembleby refusing to bury their sons                                                             **the unceasing tears of a fatherwho cannot even whisperin his dead son’s ears:suffering is inevitablethe red-hot rage of a motherwho does not stop to mournbut demands they cut him upbecause she knows her son’s cold bodyholds the truth, holds someone’s hatethe silence in the bloodthe fading of the starsand love which makesa dead young man’s familydemand a second autopsysometimes, a thirdthe stillness in the heartthe terror of moonlight in a morguethis bloody love, a quest for justice—a parent’s broken heart, unsentimental,letting a dear son survive another mutilationa chorus to douse the flameshe’s dead don’t cry he’s deadhe’s a legend now he’s a legend alreadyour legends don’t diehis life was [his love] was his deathhis death was [our anger] is our struggleour struggle is [our love] is our sonsomewhere, the words unsaid:they killed him once already,they cannot kill our son again.