I recognize
this choking sensation
from the last time she
snuck up on me,
fingers lingering
in caress,
grasping in
greed,
clasping, tightening, crush-until-you-
snap.
You still your senses,
then struggle to heave,
break free, fling away,
drag knees like leper beggar,
clamber inner walls of
moss-lined minds
and dis-engorge your spleen;
but don’t look back
oh don’t look back,
she’s waiting hungrily still.
Sadness, feline predator,
she’s a right jail warden bitch.
The smell of egg
Offends you,
A cake is lemon sin.
Your thoughts collect
Yeast
And hankerings
And scatter nail clippings in
The wind.
The walk to the temple
Cuts your heels
Devotional scars sprout maps
What would they say if you
Hurried away, unwilling to roast the
Cumin?
Gandoo, he cusses at the
Newborn child
While grandma stirs his kanji
Your worlds they crash and spray
sweet gut,
the heart as free as
marmalade.
When you look at me
I want you to see
a thrush, a hedge, a
garbage can.
The wind, the mansions
and cotton candy;
the bells, the lights,
the smooth-paved street.
Anything, oh anything,
but a five foot nine inch woman
whose eyes you will never
meet.
I am
alone.
None in this town
know me.
Delighted to return the favor, I
know my body would
become native
were I to die of joy.
I cling to the hour.
(A leech, a vine, a woman besotted)
Privileges such as these
transgress my existence only
infrequently.
I live in the Grand Canyon,
a chasm between
where I am and
where I want
to be;
A dry river bed that once
bubbled over with mirth, raindrops
and sparklings garnets along the
banks of the gentle Teesta.
We hang nets to dry, on
the ropes that gag us, and
strain skyward to remind ourselves
of how unforgiving blue can be.
Over on the other side, the
desert rocks moan
narratives of mothers, babes born tense,
and lesser wars.
Riding spider legs
on the long trudge home,
I am Ophelia, I am Atlas,
powder within, plaster without
and the best is night
when the walls mirror roof mirrors deep, deep heart
and we stand on a cliff
windless, sail-less, bending over
backwards
to
just
be.
In you I sought the
steadiness of rock
and found
an ocean
instead.
~~~
So I clung to driftwood
and rode the waves,
eyes burning for the sight
of crust and spores;
My feet, like
drunken sailors
enjoying the air,
shifted lurchingly above
merry waltzing sands.
~~~
The
fish they tittered,
the
sparkles they winked,
and I held on, held on,
melted my meat,
gulped the terror,
blew back at the wind
with lopsided cheeks.
~~~
Then your wings,
gossamer like stone, earth, sky,
they closed around me
and I built
my castle
on a houseboat
that rocked my
crinkled notions
to sleep.
And that there is the
trapeze woman,
hurtling toward faux destiny;
Fault lines perched upon her lashes
downcast and flattened genetically.
An arm and she is swung,
the other grasping sheer veils
that reveal cruelly, vindictively, the
horrors of her future.
The past, it will not have her,
the present populated with too many
red couches;
Would you live in a moment you had to
share with crimson suede?
Mid-air tastes salty-sweet, it
crumbles around the edges
and when she streams down they
gasp
Oh look! No
safety
net.
Her smile is upside down, and wide,
the skull late autumn’s bloom,
A lifetime of couches is
supplied,
painted a bloody
red.
October already, and
the trees lose their damp;
Silently into the night
it slips,
taking umbrage in sleeping forms and steam,
picking its way through drunken brawls and
leftovers.
***
October already, and
the clouds are amiss;
Gone to their grandma’s across
the bay,
Family feuds incite migrations
But if you never look upward
you can pretend they’re here still.
***
October already, and
the guttural discontent
climbs out of our bellies,
loops over shoulders and necks,
stops by the iris to nod hello,
before strangling us smugly
in our beds.
Your blood is not your own, Child,
not of your people or choosing,
Its thickness determined in the trenches,
the color as lurid as rape.
Be not unduly proud of your lineage,
for you have contributed nought thus far.
(And merely add to the numbers with the straightness of
your nose and character.)
~~~
You are Aryan, says the lilt in Mamma’s voice, her
swarthy face mocking the delusion of tone.
There are none so blind as those who will not
see, and you must not wish for
The reputation of your bloodline,
your stories, your creed,
to carve your path,
precede you.
~~~
When, at the hour of reckoning,
they ask what you have done,
You cannot believe
that merely being spawned,
birthed among the anointed:
blessed thousands on stretches of prime earth and vaster benefits,
was your greatest contribution to the land that
embalmed you.
~~~
Be not of your blood, Child,
for they will anchor you,
in chains that beseech and soggy knots that shrink
until you morph-molt-manifest,
Your nose, height and hair
shrieking hosannas to history,
And the iron gates, they will creakingly close,
locking you inside, among the Sayers,
arrested, taut and proud,
forever.
Tonight is a night for poetry.
For Neruda, Manivannan, Szymborska to convene,
Singe the dampness and my inner stone,
Purging loss, blood, memory as return gifts.
…
Tonight is a night for poetry.
For haze, aching and city lights,
Churn the heaves into bite-sized portions,
Packed in steel boxes for tea time.
…
Tonight is a night for poetry.
For the future that will happen without me,
I will watch that life with binoculars,
Offer improper condolences when it is time.
…
Wash away
the wetness.
Wash away
the night.
Scrape spirits within an inch of breath;
Petrify.
…
Cleave resignation with familiar spade
Line up in dated rows
He’ll come back like he said he would
And find orange peels and your scent
on the wind.
Ultra Violet
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi