Monsoon in Hometown

                      A survivor of present

                      — memory is instant.

I could walk so I flew,

stumbled forecast,

saw everybody turning

a tattered face,

 

in an awkward pause

the tin-roof spasmed

on the wall, violence ensues

even an old building.

 

The epigraph severed

through the rainyard.

 

                            Monsoon is too pretty a name for a season as messy as this.

                                                                                         Nadeem Aslam, Season of the Rainbirds

 
(Jul 11, 2010)

panic

The last of gravedigger’s wives
wriggles while bathing,
neck cold as leaves shivering –
aftermath of rainy nights.

Several hours ago, rubbed
against jute, storm after storm
inexplicably sweet lashes burned

her faint-less skin brown.
Growing brown, her fingers
excavate down his shoulders
where fireflies would drown.

Yet. In cold night dreams
he clumps lightning in her ears,
her body melts in his palms

of mud and skin.

(jun6 – jun25, 2010)

orgasms

She ran stiff
to answer the door bell
thrashing the moment,
between, last step forward and
fainting the thought of him,
she remembers.

Hair grille over him
stays naked days of nights
scuttling, looking, nor
the ‘sans’ look
a compliment at his face
resonance lace commonplace.

We all drag
on, and on
on lasting occasions.