Slightly built, yet robust,
not frail, a daily jogger by choice,
shape conscious, proud-
about keeping the weight
in check, all these years,
articulates her feelings well
but, not the argumentative type,
this facet endears her to all,
keeps her Indian mind agile,
which reflects in her awareness
of eternity than here and now.
Takes oil bath twice a day, in keeping with
the true Malayalee spirit,
never a river in spate, yet
forceful and gushing in making heard
her opinions for others to consider,
from the first day of marriage,
unlike the demure Indian women.

None would doubt her might
that transcends the limits of material and physical,
hidden power sources are tapped at will,
cites her matrilineal heritage, that
stems form a long line of matriarchal grandmothers.

I can't imagine a day passing our premises
without she giving permission,
putting her signature,
all over each passing hour,
though we never keep a formal register for that.
Aren't we three, auxiliaries, the boys and I
in the orchestra named after this inveterate conductor?
Sweet to the core, but if needed
could be pungent, never erupts or go wild,
Smile is disarmingly gentle, yet
that firm answer, needed at the right time,
is never delayed.

Two adoring eyes flutter,
pledging support,
they never let me down, day or night.
a hand that gently touches, me
with the  fingers of reality.
when I dream in day or night.

one single you of mine
ahead away far long offshore your eyes
to me appear, a cabaret of stars
my child
the infant space to fill
the hole and i
complete my seed
her tree
to life, bring one
single you of
mine.

it is a warm November
night on a delta in India
and at restaurant there
with hand-carved
wood balconies
a person leans over
the railing as their
hand wraps around the
etching of an elephant
they stare into the dark,
reflective water of
a small tributary of
some unnamed river
while behind them
there’s a fan turning
circles on the ceiling
in metronome to
a chorus of insects

what gives you the right to tell me who i am?
who gave you the right to try and hold my hand?
do you want to be dehumanized;
     dissected and put on display?
when i tell you the truth, you can't even muster the courage to say
that i am a human being with respect, but none from you.
my heart beats with the intelligence that yours lacks
i can't believe you've convinced so many people of your love for respect and justice and loyalty and
darling, if no one notices your hatred does that mean it's still there?
my hair blows in the wind that you've created
in the world where i don't matter.
and in the cardboard box that is life
you are the box and i am the tape because
most times i'm not appreciated until i am gone.
if a tree falls in the woods, does that mean it makes a sound?
dear god, i can't believe the mess that i've found.
you put us in the corner and said "don't you dare make a sound."
my heart is racing, deep breaths while it pounds.
you hurt until you're gone
but oops, no one cares.
it's hard to win the fight when they want you to be lighter than air.

squeeze you to read you,
the pores that pour out hidden punctuation
that defines and makes and creates pauses for
you to look beautiful in.

there are two velux windows somewhere
in the world that look out onto chimney pots
and rooftops and birds next to each other looking
out over a flight plan that they'll fly together.

in pub seats we'll slide into and across,
placing coats on empty chairs so not to be stolen
and you pause. And out comes a list from behind a breath and a
colon: everything you wish to achieve in a year.

somebody at work
said who'd want to be normal
her eyes glinting behind
her ray band sunglasses
and her car wash uniform
and her Toms shoes
but she was right to a point
who would
when normal means being the middle six?
**** that I want to be all three of them
an angel of bad taste and baggy clothes
and the best people I've ever met
never met normal
going home on the last bus
with his briefcase
and suit
and his dial tone voice
no the best people I've met
took normal out back
and Old Yeller'd the *******
they are the people who would fly into the sun
if only their wings weren't held together with wax
Me?
I'm the subterranean rodent
taking para-scope Polaroids
hoping to get a glimpse of the good life