sleep tastes
like milk tea and cinnamon,
wind-cooled
for maybe fifteen minutes
drowning in sugar
so that your tongue is sweet and numb.

I used to wonder
why you slept so long
plaid covers up to your nose
pillow imprinted
with your crown.

now I know
that dawn often tastes bitter
and the remains of the day
sticky like pomegranate rot
when dusk arrives
like a cool drink in summer
I can finally slake
this thirst for something different.

knuckles ache
peel back the page:
Aurelius, Seneca, Epictetus
cluck the tongue
boys outside throw jabs
over a cracked
cricket bat
a father frets over
investments and client work,
simple things.
I read on
wondering how so many words
committed to tranquility
could be attributed to so many men
when women
trained stoics since the womb
would pen epics -
if only they were not plucking stones from rice.

she said:
don’t forget!
milk, oil, flowers
our offerings, our worship.
my hands are broken
but still you kiss each finger.
I remember
milk for kheer,
oil for the lamp,
flowers for Shiva.
to me these are nothing.
in your eyes the world sleeps
can I sleep in them, too?

Hindi:

वह कही:
मत भूलना!
दूध, तेल, फूल
हमारा प्रसाद, हमारी पूजा
मेरे हाथ टूट गए हैं
लेकिन अभी भी तुम एक एक उंगली चुंबन।
मुझे याद है
खीर के लिए दूध,
दीपक के लिए तेल,
शिव के लिए फूल।
मेरे लिए ये कुछ भी नहीं हैं।
तुम्हारी आँखों में दुनिया सो रही
मैं उन में सो सकते हैं भी ?


Bangla:

ও বলল:
ভুলে যাবেন না!
দুধ, তেল, ফুল
আমাদের নৈবেদ্য, আমাদের পূজা।
আমার হাত ভেঙে গেছে
তবুও আপনি প্রতিটি আঙুল চুমু।
মনে আছে
খিরের জন্য দুধ,
বাতি জন্য তেল,
শিবের জন্য ফুল।
আমার কাছে এগুলি কিছুই নয়।
তোমার চোখে পৃথিবী ঘুমায়
আমি কি তাদের মধ্যে ঘুমাতে পারি?

you only love me in the silence I keep
I wet my tongue with white wine
quiet,
and when you slumber I speak
each syllable a liberation.

father,
it has been over a decade
since my last confession;
in fact,
that crisp lenten day,
you in your purple,
I refused to come in,
giggling,
because I had committed nothing
worth an intermediary.

under lock and key,
anxious not to make trouble,
a natural people pleaser,
what could I child do but
laugh at sin?

today my prayers are mingled -
mangled,
a clutter of languages and deities:
my god is one but also many.
I’m not even Catholic anymore,
But for old time’s sake,
will you listen?

don’t wear anything
too long
too short,
cross your legs
try to look
ladylike -
smile, don’t fight
ask others what they need
or stay silent but
keep smiling.
walk softly, sway
gracefully, carry
a world your crown
cook ambitiously,
daily,
clean well
work comes after
the house and home,
so do hobbies -
sewing is a nice one,
when you find the time,
between peeling garlic and
scrubbing the basin,
won’t you fix that button
on your shirt?
your hair, too,
should be styled
even simply,
daily
for everyone.
don’t say you’re tired,
we all are tired,
but you’ve got to follow
every last rule.
and when you’re finished
take a picture and tag yourself
smiling,
folks want to know
you’re happy about it.

oil splattered
underfoot
dripping from the diya,
leaking slowly
cotton wick burns black
smoke wisp
bending
paints the ceiling
like kajal  
around your eyes.
my palms trace the wooden
alter,
a splinter punctures my thumb.

light like a razor blade
I squint
at a pointed shadow,
a thief, I thought,
but it was a cop.

his flashlight
stabs at stuffed animals
and plaid school skirt.
voice gruff
mother’s anxiety pools
in heated, clammy hands,
and when he leaves,
boots threatening,
she follows, rambling.

I wonder how
a man can mistake a child
for an adult.
but maybe,
he just liked rattling the cage
his badge built around us.

cheap matches
it took three trips
striking those brittle necks
against the grate.
but when I finally lit
sandalwood incense,
that smoldering scent
calmed my jittery soul,
aching for reprieve
from longing.

buy now get one
free, it’s
the deal of a
lifetime. learn
how you can earn
more
doing
less - be
like a billionare
just like Bezos
gulp down
that $100 coffee
because in this discounted
course bundle - now
just a dollar less than
a grand,
we’ll teach you to go
from crumbling off-brand tennis shoes,
dollar menus
to combo meals
and houses large enough
for twelve families.
remember, this is America
sign up now
so that even if you’re shot tomorrow,
at least you were productive today.

wind whines
haze rain
flings dishtowels
dupatta from
balconies.
150 kilometers
from the sea
I feel the chill,
nature bestows
a mini-monsoon,
relief
from summer’s sweltering
tirades.
but what destruction
could this storm, too, bring?

aging is forgetting
bitten pencils sharpened
to shavings,
traded my HB2 for a B6
admired charcoal black lines.
paint tubes plastered shut
words tumble out on
any old scrap,
memories dashed against
trash heaps
maybe, burnt in bonfires
all those joys, tragedies
cradled in the wind,
carried to someone
who might be young enough to remember.

I know my god,
I see him in your eyes
I feel his lips on my ear
Like rain on sand
I can’t forget his power,
A fire that does not burn
But it brings life to the ashes

another protest
october sun in knoxville
chilly but
the leaves still shake green
krutch park,
patches of grass brim with bodies
tent *****, occupying
you and I
munch on six dollar subs
after the general assembly
crisp air carrying
the taste of spring
that same elusive flavor
which rolled on the tongue
during Arab Spring. but I
remember
how that ended.

another protest
riots
reading Stonewall
post-MLK assassination
at the Gandhi-King conference
I wonder why there're no children,
just adults, tired,
all their experience
cloistered
in empty classrooms and powerpoints.

another protest,
hands up
blocking intersections
my phone buzzes
but I can’t hear it
"why are you wasting your time?"
he growls later.

another protest,
another black body.
extra credit in the sixth grade
nearly failing English -
"write about Jim Crow" -
I lost myself
counting names:
oppression prefers continuity.

now,
far from home,
too far,
fifty dollars bail
still sounds too paltry
but there’s little left now.
twitter feeds are burning buildings
pepperspray and milk.
mouth dry, I watch,
I count the names again,
I hope tomorrow we won’t need
another protest.

against the moon rays
we drank rose milk,
burned the petals beside
sandalwood and benzoin.
we wondered
how anything could be
as magnificent as this moment?

I plucked rangoon creepers
they did not slip through my
fingers into dust
like the crepe myrtles. at your feet
I laid bengal trumpets and
lavender; pink oleander,
between your toes.
smoldering agarbatti
wafted over your eyes
everything cedar smoke and fire -
no burnt offering
could smell as sweet.

my soles are copper nearly
black, pudgy and blistering
heels cracked from heat
and hateful words,
my hands aren’t much better.
I soak them with epsom salts and tears
some nights I ask the sky,
why have you given me empathy -
what can I do with it
in a country soaked in blood?

the day you left
our water went, too
jugaad,
barren bore well,
too many bodies in one building,
I count excuses, listen
for spouts
faucet handles twisted
empty mouths
gape black.

even our filter-
empty
except for salt deposits
nibbling at the plastic.
it’ll take three days,
they said,
for it to be fixed.
a tanker will come.

lips dry, cracked
at the seams,
buckets half filled,
teal paint peeling
the water from the corner shop,
more bitter than Marah’s,
but
I had no power to make it sweet.

I asked your vanished shadow
for at least a little rain
and in the midst of summer,
I saw two clouds,
white pockets heavy
with rain
but they went to the mountains.

at dusk
a lone tanker
rusted red
crawled up our street
spilled
half its hold
on splintered pavement.
when it departs
a shallow spurt from the faucets
fill the flat with
gargles and whines,
a single drop
lands on my palm.