Your scarf spoke nine tongues.
I failed to know the purpose, seek the language
of splinters, shards, lazy salsas.
I thought the skies bowed to you even
as they turned mauve. Awe
filled my lungs, I breathed.
Shards slow danced, I felt your smile.
It smelt of something else.
Your ducking shadows traded with liquid limelight.
Bertha & I
Tonight I feel like Bertha Mason
with a fire and sadness in my soul.
I pace my room – this attic of madness –
it keeps me sane. I think it keeps me
whole, somehow. There’s no breeze
through the window, just an empty
vastness of night and shadow and
half-lights. And the knock on my door,
well, it came before – today, tomorrow,
or never, who knows. Tonight I am
Bertha Mason. I see her in the mirror,
lifting her hand to strike the match,
to knock the lantern over. I wait for
the crackle and hiss of wood, the empty
kiss of lapping flames. Yet all around
me is darkness, darkness. What burns
is a fury for what’s come before
and will again.
***
I drive by narrow lanes called eda
in colloquial malayalam, the walls hoarded with large
posters of Mohanlal and some teenager heroine
(who won the National Award for Best Actress,
I’m told, for carrying on precariously well
as a mother of an eighteen year old, when
she herself had but known eighteen mango- textured
summers) with wisps of curls over elephantine
ears and a big, red bindi on her forehead. The car
rumbles over dead brown leaves, to be
composted; more leaves that’d borne
mid-life crises and just breathed last
beneath the tires and the smell of wet
earth rises to my nostrils. There’s
another smell that’s common in these
towns. The smell of unsmoked bidi leaves
caressed by nimble fingers of women, young
and old, in factories overloaded with
women, for they’re cheaper, more reliable
and don’t drink. All they do, is work
and smile and save money for their
daughters’ and sisters’ weddings to be
held under thatched, nameless roofs
with indistinct tharavad flavors. Their
smiles burst out, like pomegranates when
cut open. They must’ve known my grandparents.
Why else would they smile at me? My city
lips creak open like a two hundred year old
frozen fossil. A scarlet-less smile,
aching to be shed.
***
Does all lust start and
end like this? Don’t get me
wrong. I loved my wolf.
I held him tethered like
a pussycat. I nursed
the rumble in his belly
with hands gentle as a burglar’s.
He lived on milk
and blood and ocean. He
had violets for his furs.
