Wet Crow

Someday I will learn
to capture
the wet crow in words.
I will write about

the wing-shoulders
hunched a shade of
sleek
and the faded evening
caw-cawing against the dark

jade of trees.
I will mention
the curious cocking
of a wise-eyed aging
punk, greyer
and a strange wet

beard beneath the beak.

Someday I will know
how to etch lines
into the black shimmer
shake of body and

clutching claws that speak

*

Grandmother’s Godrej: I

The women of the house
could no longer embrace
the squatting wooden thing.

They needed something
more solid than fluting
something that did not desire
a polish every week
something
that did not need dusting
between vine-leaves
and flower whorls.

The Godrej
steely-straight with no deceptive
dirt-seducing curves
arrived in a cart
with much pageantry.
Various men in sweaty vests
pushed pulled shouted swore
until it stood tall and grey in
a snooty little corner
all by itself.

It flaunted
its cursive name and soon became a womb
for aging silks, perfumes, powders while the
wooden thing sat barren by the bed with only
fake chiffons for company.

The new almirah was cold and cranky,
demanded silence while it creaked and
croaked and could not be opened when
babies slept. In hushed tones people

talked about how clothes were no longer
cared for by crunchy neem leaves but by
the miniature-snowball splendour
of naphthalene balls.

*
The Godrej website

wordfruit

or
Why I Love the Disco-Papita*

The word is a poem--
gaudy succulence

lush and orange on my tongue.

It’s a smooth skin of sound
that mirrors blushes

and the illicitness of a knife
slicing open a slushy
hollow full of

burstingblack seeds.

~
* The word that fruit vendors in Delhi use for the papaya.

Two Summer Poems

*
Guwahati May

She is a courtesan. Her slowness
is an art. Her lazy
reclining warmth
suffocates
like heavy silks an hour
before the storm.
She sits
still
cunningheavy eyes lowered
knowing that the quieter she gets
the more you will sweat and desire
the touch of air.

*

Delhi June

She is all cleavage and flashing
thighs and her laughter reveals
a mango-laden world
fat with peel seed flesh

Her walk whitens all
scrunches eyes makes
webs on faces and
fakes rivers on streets.

When she waves
you away her fingertips
create winds that carry with them
several suns
and a restlessness that makes
you think of flies
hurtling around in canned air.
*

how to cut a fish

you have to sit
         properly
woman-like on the floor
put         one foot
strongly gingerly
on the base of the blade
hold the fish with firm hands
head and tail       and swing
him quick leftrightleftright
to remove the scales check
beneath the gills red fans
cut them swift and
then fins here there up down
and tail
feel that perfect line
where the head ends and the body
begins choose it fine and move
slow over the edge
feel the resistance of white flesh staring eye
and open mouth but keep at it let him feel the pressure
of your fingers until it is done and the head sits isolated with a hole
dripping with stuff and then halve
him down his body and pull out the red mess
make equal pieces cutting him so that
the bones do not disturb
afterwards.