One Witness

My wife tells me
That I am especially
Romantic when I am fast asleep.

She felt my fingers
Start at her closed legs
Tracing away at her head.

I remember nothing
Of all of this cuddling
And feel thoroughly cheated.

Waking Her Up

Her eyes are closed
And hotly kohled,
I kiss the oil on her face,
Waking her up in parts.

I lift her kurti
And close my lips
On the soft fat
Around her back.

She makes noises
I can place as happy
Despite the complaints
From her body.

Motivations for Connecting

I look at you and know
Exactly what we are capable of
If I drop the matchstick
On all that falls from you.

Pillow talk without sex,
Stories that can perform,
And lots of tea.

I look at you,
Speak of your forests
And leave without incident;
I have enough fire for now.

Deep Sleeping

I am not as light a sleeper
As I need to be, my father says,
I sleep as if the sheep have returned,
The pastures are empty,
And my day is done.

Sometimes I wake up
And a whole day has passed
And I feel the truth of my
Complete replaceability.

.

I hug a waist in front of me
Before I am wakeful enough
To fear rejection --
Perfume and sweat
And I am content.

Getting Through

Your smile is fake and beautiful

Don't let people democratize

Your right to stir yourself

When you can't move a muscle.

Deep breaths, deep breaths,

People around you can afford

To fight and break and make a mess,

Energy is cheap and abundant.

Deep breaths.

Try to talk after the polite nod,

People can't see you busy

Deep inside your chest,

Servicing invisible demons.

Let yourself fall, love,

There is more to you

Than what can fall

And break completely.

Weak Love

My love is weak-shouldered, love,
When the blades in their pits ache,
I look for the sting of the cold
And hurry my warmth around you.

My love is slow-cantering, love,
When the sun rises in the bloom,
Half of my legs create distance
To better see your blush in pastels.

My love is closed-handed, love,
Your smiles light up the coins
Hidden on our valleys of frost,
I spend my summers making walls.

My love is high-fevered, love,
I contract contagions like a trader,
All of me is a battle-field, waiting,
You're my death-bed every time.

In My Hands - A Ghazal

Iron and fur brooked the cold in my hands,
Long before there was gold in my hands.

Too many stories end with morals,
But I write of the mould in my hands.

Dreams are won on fields outside dreams,
That's where I met the bold in my hands.

In closed rooms inside my chest there lie
Victims of what I sold in my hands.

I was worn where the dream was won,
My story is the old in my hands.

It is this: my youth is my age lost
Beneath every fold in my hands.

To survive ambition was to leave
All that I could not hold in my hands.