Wallpaper

Two hours after my first love left me I
punched a wall
so hard that I could see
the first man and his lover etched in red
in the concave part
of craters carved by my knuckles. Cave art.
My mother wrapped my hands in wallpaper
and said
that some people have bricks in their hearts that need cementing
and some have walls that need painting.
I did not understand how to paint walls, only how to break them
or color them red.
Some walls aren't meant to be broken,
my mother said.
Some walls are there to hold up your soul.
Some walls just need paper.

White

Sochi stole her sister's silks and wrote a poem in clothes on her body.
It was not an ode to love. It was an ode to beauty.

When I saw her like that, under the moonlight,
she looked like a bride. Her skin was white, white like the moon
but the white was so bright
that her smile was just an eclipse.

Ma always said that mirrors were khatham, so i only looked in them
when it was dark.
They say Bhagwan sees through the eyes of children.
When my daughter asks me if he sees her eyes in the dark,
I am tempted to answer: "only the whites."

Metal

Mahum told me that her mouth tasted of pennies.
There are worlds trapped inside my soul, she whispered.
there were chipped cities in her teeth, scarred skyscrapers.
and when she yawned i swear i saw the world implode.
Where are the worlds? i asked.
I swallowed them, she said, and smiled the smile of a broken woman.
I pressed my fingers into the dental records hidden in apple skins and
tried to stay the shattered dam of her tears.
I thought if i plugged my fingers into the gutters of her gums, her screams would stop.
MY MOUTH IS MONEY she screeched
and with every kiss sold her soul
a little bit.
My mouth tastes of pennies, Mahum said.
When I kissed her, all i tasted was rust.

Pumpkin Spice

Someone once asked me why I hate pumpkins

and I said, “because Walt Disney hated Pocahontas

and watermelons never turned into chariots.”

Every Jack-o-Lantern has a shark-toothed smile

and there's a glass slipper at the bottom of every

Pumpkin Spice Latte.

Lines

Did they draw cages in the sand and say “she cannot touch you inside these lines.”

Did you laugh when I crashed through the bars like a tidal wave? I am not easy to love, I promise. But honey, if you wanted easy you'll find her in your wallet. 

Trumpet Bells

And the notes they stuck like so much dust—

—dandelion dust, fairy wishing dust—

in my hair and caught on the skin

behind my ears.

They tugged and teased my trumpet shell,

my dusty, disused, cartilage bell,

and snaked their way into my brain

and tap danced on my memory cells.

Hate

They came at me with crucifix horns,
Cinder-ella! Cinder-ella!
My glass slippers shattered as I ran,
White-cold shards bit my white-skinned soles,
And the shark-shards shredded my snow-white feet,
But I ran, I ran like a wild-fire streak.

They pinned me to an ancient tree,
They sealed my heart with an arrow of words,
to the age-old bark of the ageless sage.
Choicest they were, the woods they used,
As they let loose the ravenous flame on the lavender wood--
--but it was good wood,
it was wise wood,
old wood.

With my unbound soul I raped the skies,
And our bastard children let loose on earth,
Demons with dry wells for souls,
And I let them consume me, eat my flesh,
Their white-cold teeth shredded my softness,
I was wood, once again, burnt sandalwood.

Witch! they screamed, and tore at my hair,
As I fell into their pitchfork fury,
Metal fangs suckled my breast and my womb tingled
from the rancid passion; we were making hate.
Ardently and lustfully, we rode each others' malice.
The rotting, festering vomit of emotion,
settled in a putrid, acid curd.

When it rained, I stretched out my jaw,
and tasted the clean water, free of taint,
And I was melting, melting, oh!
My feet like hot wax glued me to the cleansed earth,
A tender peace, like translucent paper--wet rice paper,
fell over my face, and I could see,
The world washed out in whiteness, peace.

My fingers lock--a gridlock, stubborn gates,
My toes curl like hungry hoes,
And my wood-carved body's carved out again,
And now I'm a boat, a ferryman's bitch.
Men--many men--sit in my womb,
And I birth them with no pain, no gain,
When their journey is done.
They will not return to my womb.
I'm a ferryman's bitch,
A red-wood canoe,
not lavender, not sandalwood,
I'm ugly wood now.
I'm gnarled and knotted,
But I can still bear life,
And my unbound soul,
Still impregnates.