9. walking ambu-jammal

Our voices float through pockets of air,
swollen like cardamom dregs; overhead
palm fronds hammock
and catch them, tucking them in
above the whirring tailor’s shop
down the way. We walk.

Someone has begun a rangoli on my doorstep,
sands like sunset spread in our welcome.
I know it will fade by morning.

The sweeper woman flicks back her sari,
erasing our footprints as we leave them.

What will remain but the glamorous hope
that we were here, once,
and you remember?


One thought on “9. walking ambu-jammal

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s