I saw them move:
swish, flick,
crescendo, diminuendo.
Her fingers the wings of a bird.
Between those strings
was a little raven.
Black and stark amongst the white music. 
If I had seen it when I was twelve,
I would have prayed to it. 
These adolescent eyes
saw more than I see now. 
Yesterday I was looking under my
bed again, and I
mistook a temple for a shelter. 
Today I found myself at a concert hall
still thinking of harmony;
the soaring pain:
of the raven, 
    of Beethoven,
        of the violin. 
Something pressed an artery in me
like a soft white piano key, 
and in my eye I saw
the raven and twelve-year-old me. 
            

My indents in the wet ground, 
and the mud sticking to your bare legs. 
All we have learned to do 
is roll around in the filth. 
We climb up the statue
and you pose like your namesake:
Partha,		Arjuna,	Vijaya.
    Bright, 		Kingly,		Victorious.
I think about the corpses 
that my mother said flow in the river. 
We are playing a game in which
you touch me and I freeze. 
Sometimes, we talk about god. 
Sometimes I dare to look him in the eye.
Beneath our dangling legs,
the river is a song that I look at 
through between my toes, and 
that only the mountains can hear.
Behind, a fire rises; a wailing; a conch. 
From the corner of my eye
you disappear.
We race up the steps again. 
          

He refrains from laughing, 
and I kick my wet shoes off.
His face – a third act montage,
a failure of kindness, withering sunflowers. 
I do the walk of shame 
into my own apartment. 
It was all much easier in his car.
Pouring rain, downtown traffic
and his eyes on the road. 
I pictured him waiting with rumpled hair
in the moonlight as I worked. 
I want to ask him if he wishes I was thinner
but already, he is looking at my literature,
overflowing drawer, at my grandma’s shawl. 
I imagine my room as his museum. 
Him, peeling me like an orange
and I, swearing like a sailor. 
The sun rises for him,
and before my bedtime
I dream about my next shift. 
          

I am so good at it.
I have perfected the 
clearing of my throat.
Everywhere, 
ready with the next one;
spears flying through the air. 
My armour is so well cut.
Hands are chiseled sharp 
to dig into your blood. 
I want to peruse your mind 
like a worm making its way
through a watermelon rind. 
But God forbid, for once
I am the receiver
of someone being curious.
I have memorised facts,
and I dream of you asking
me my questions back. 
I am forever unknown,
a slinker in the back of the bar. 
Silent night, I watch. 
A wallflower.
          

There is something about the ritual of it all.
Every morning, I clean out
the filter, wipe the sticky oils
from the aluminium chamber with my fingers.

I perform an exercise in balance,
seal the boiling water in.
My grounds are spilled 
all over the kitchen counter
but the coffee is oozing out,
starting gently, 
and then with a little train whistle
it starts sputtering, volcanic & angry.

Last week, it was Kenya.
Today it is Italian medium roast.
Somedays it is burnt, 
other days watery,
but everyday I drink it
and set the pot aside for tomorrow.