Kamala Das says, “You live for that person,
the sharer of your pain.”
Search for him.
He is man.
“She is incomplete without man.”
Man is what I lack?
Or something more lost,
folded into wrinkled past?
Can you, a man,
return the lost bits,
or sew near-matching
patches?
Which you-man?
“Would you like to complete me?
Quick if you love
STOP.
No love.
Just clean
commitment.
I need you.
to swallow capsules of pain,
enclosed in transparent,
hermetic bubbles,
risk communication.
Kamala Das is ancient beauty
in her “dupatta”
(or is it “hijāb”?).
I almost set myself afire
on the roof outside
where no one can see me
smoking away my youth.
Covered against malaria,
bird flu and japanese encephalitis,
obviously not accustomed to
demure female adornment.
Heavy breeze envelops
cigarette in dupatta
and “shit!” it’s burning.
this sort of pain,
melting fingers and cloth.
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