five

volun
teered
to paint
you-er
garaaje
not love for you
my prettee
itz
the thinner
that
iz mind
blowin

three

smelly
stagnant
rooms
remind me
of glue days
and sharpie nights.
we were warm
in leather boots,
matching blue
vinyl coats
and mittens.
and pearls lay
strewn between us.

water

toes test temperature,
vetiver, ancient healer,
assures his touch on thighs,
so lower your body
in the warm water,
let islands of knees
and shoulders sink,
stretch, look at the ceiling,
when the back of your neck,
soaks the comfort of the wet,
you say, 'i love you!'

but he's deaf now.
the failure of the years
between you,
is clear in the lines of his face.
there is no gleam in his eye,
to collect as memory.

so you stop struggling.
quell reflex with resignation.
and let him press
sternum and shoulder harder,
and let water fill your lungs.

advice

'stick and stones from strangers
and words from those near.'
the gnarled hand holds mine
and it rains tears on the ground.

'you'll be rich, my dear
dressed in silver and gold', she says
'then why the tears, old witch'
i want to ask, and she guesses,
'because you'll be poor of love.'

i follow her green-eyed black cat
down the crooked rainy road
into a fire-warmed tavern
where after seven glasses of red
and complete confession
the host takes a gleaming knife
over a green porcelain dish
and cuts my fingertip.
with a lock of my hair
dipped in this warm red,
i sign away my possessions
and choose love instead.

twenty years later,
wounded by love's infidelities,
i'm trying to find the same tavern.
pausing for rest under a timeless tree,
picking out the thorns,
when a faint meow draws my attention
away from the arrow in my back
(shot by a dear friend).

'cat! you still alive?'
'no stupid woman, that was mum',
cat says, agrees to take me back.
my feet hurt but i make it there,
to find the man in the tavern.
not a silver hair on his head,
not a wrinkle on his face,
he ignores my surprise,
says he knows why i was there
and offers me the same red to drink.

before i say anything, he says
'no money to buy salve, eh?
people don't think before signing
their souls away.' i beg, i plead,
but there is no other way.

seeing how hurt i was, he relents
'i'll give you pretence,' he says
'it comes free to those hurt in love
if you practice it every day
the pain will soon be gone.'

three long years have gone
since that advice on an autumn afternoon.
and just when you think,
it has worked very well,
along comes a rainy day song,
or a stray smell of you,
and i'm crying again.

wishful thinking

you never liked summers,
always drawing the shades.
i did not mind the cool dark shadows
but did you think i could not hear
the crook of the finger
that beckoned you to betray me?

my fair weather friend,
if i had a knife right now
i would stick in it in your foot
right between the third and the fourth
metatarsals, and watch your lung bleed inside
while you writhed in agony outside.
and i would hire sarnath
to use a 2b to sketch the various shades of pain
making their mark on your face.
and then i would pay him some more
to permanent ink you.

maybe i would write a poem
and take it to jeet
who might take it to sridhar
who might sing it in her smoky voice
so i could wet the very dry martini
in the library bar with my tears.

treachery does not have a season,
but i let you laugh for too many,
now that the sakura is in bloom,
i am glad to bury you here
under the hundred thousand petals,
before the heat gets you.

not love

she's gathering flowers from the grass,
picking sorrowful thoughts from dreams,
those are tears not dewdrops on the green.

dawn in the city is dusty,
she cuts her long hair for a broom.
only snatches of tuneless songs left to collect.

anguishes come and go,
she's been watchful, they tend to stay
hidden in some cobwebby corner of the heart.

tell her it's not her you love,
but when she was shaking out the songs and thoughts
from her window, you stood beneath
and looking up fell in love with the illusion of a bird
that wiped all lustful thoughts in your head
with the soundless flap of her white wings.