This is the space of distilled things.
Sunlight filters through the jagged
red edges of leaves and a Carnatic raga
in the house across the street
is pleasanter for being remote
and beyond my control. Still further,
the faint sounds of delighted shouts
over something surprisingly found.
Pale-headed Anthurium speckle
the green. Pure. Spatulate. Each
tentatively nodding flower holed
with little flecks of emptiness
where body should have shone.
The snails have been at it again.
Oil lamps in bright pink, gold and
green, now extinguished, are calm
as a row of Kathakali dancers at rest,
their masks off, hands still.
The night’s festivities are over,
they seem to say, and it is time
to seek the darknesses.
I gulp the cool, clear rustle of air.
Its sharpness on my tongue is the
memory of unripe berries, peppermint,
orgasm. I curl my toes into moist soil
hear the earth cake between them.
I will walk to the store this way
barefoot, earth-smudged, sated.
*First published at Cha: An Asian Journal
