Ends of February

“But, I’ve locked the door,” mothers shout. “This heat is a slit
across the skin!”

They tie their hair up in a bun and talk about women
who brought them flowers day out and day in.                      

 In spring, you and I squat on the terrace and dig away          in silence.
At our heel sticks the faint memory of kanchan and mango trees.

                                 “She probably loved another woman,” you whistle out,
and huddle                                         farther away.
“However little,” I slip in close
                                                  and    one     by      one    
We peel off our dead skin.

Remember

Your face was winter; remember
That winter; remember the aloe
Of light on that day; bedazzled,
Remember one sinking December;
The ire, the hour, remember the
Flower, your smudged desire;
Remember this love in vain.

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