Heat


You have summer’s stifling heat,
carry it in your skin, and in your eyes,
memory and vision of what 40
degrees of scorching
heat can blister through: your mouth is a
memory of green chilies and sometimes
red eaten raw – vocal cords taut,  and
ending in a veena’s dragon head
climbing in your throat, when you open
your lips, wanting (to say) more –

People make out (with that) tongue,
you know, see it snake out sometimes
flickering, like a forked after-thought,
taesting the air for two different directions,
both, equally traveled, like a candle
burnt at both ends on a hot Delhi night
with no electricity, hanging like a
crescent moonlit fantasy, before you swallow
your words.

And you have rain in you too,  Pondicherry’s
monsoon flash floods flowing without apology
in your veins – turning girl-sweet, damp
scent of  jasmine, white, into wet
musk, flowers hanging in your thick braid, a marigold
line of thin sandalwood fire, and blood red kumkumum
sweat  dripping, like a holy river from your throat,
traveling the valley stretch between your breasts,
the thick clouded flavour of coconut oil catching raindrops
running in rivulets of desire along your arms.

God, girl, is nothing you do,
nothing you are,
without heat?

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This entry was posted in feminism, poetry, Tackling Racism, Thoughts on Life, Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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