‘Good morning, I woke up first’ and Other Poems

Good morning, I woke up first

 

.      Like the plastic water bottle in the car dicky

.      rolling noiselessly, last used years ago —

 

you are unremarkable.

I watch a video of the best herbal drinks

to start your day with but I am always

one ingredient short, so

I watch you, waiting for you

to flower, sprout, exhale.

 

I press down the wrinkles on my side

of the bedsheet — there are none

on yours — and watch you,

soaking in your quiet. I make

a list of things we need to do

right now, but

will do the next weekend instead,

maybe.

.      Dust the drawers and make

.      the fennel-mustard spice mix

.      for the chilli pickle. Wash both

.      of our faces with gram flour & turmeric

.      because my mother said it’d help both

.      of us; she always talks to both

.      of us. Practice greeting guests. Wriggle

.      our bodies ready for the week to come.

.      We

need to, but you are soft now; you

curl your fingers loosely around

the pillow cover and I

know you know

.      we need to.

 

I let my legs dangle and touch my feet

to the floor; you pull the blanket over

yourself and it envelops the distorted

dog face on your beach-brown tee.

.      Should we grow a garden? Should we

.      go on runs or stretch for fifteen minutes

.      each morning? Should we

.      get a cat? Should we

.      pray? We should

start today. Your toes twitch

when the windows creak; your toes

are a lot like your fingers, cautious,

unshapen, easy to sketch.

.      We should.

 

I count the still seconds between your

inhale and exhale;

I make a list of things I would be saying

if you were awake.

.      one.

We need lighter colours — whiter

sheets, thinner curtains, brighter

towels. Buy the towels first. We could

even get a doormat.

And beads and bells.

.      two.

I want to read the book you are

reading but you never seem to finish

it even though you talk about it all the

time.

.      three.

We have no photo frames; if

we died or disappeared, they

would not know who

lived here. I like that.

.      four.

You have smile lines; is that

a good sign? How long have

you known me for? Do you

still make music?

.      five.

Last night’s bhel was missing something.

Potato. Coriander. Onion. Sev.

Raw mango. Garlic-tomato-mint paste.

Not sweet enough. You smell of tamarind chutney.

.      six.

I am hungry. What would you

like for breakfast? Do we want

breakfast? Do we eat

lunch?

.      seven.

Do we need a newspaper subscription?

Not for us, for the coffee table.

.      eight.

You are all I have.

You are all I have.

Please breathe.

.      nine.

I forget to count and glance

at the couch that is evidently

.      ours and you

.                        inhale.

When did you exhale? Did you

 

.           exhale?

 

Your

.      eyes open. Both

at once but

.      slowly. Like

.      a bird stretching its wing out

.      for the first time. Like

.      taking off toe rings. Like

.      a dragonfly shedding its skin. Like

.      soap water sinking into dusty sponges. Like

.      threads slipping out of old zari work. Like

.      kajal keeping the tears away, inside. Like

.      a sweaty hand dropping a crayon. Like

.      a perfectly pinned scarf. I have not

seen all of these things but

 

I have seen you. I see you

.      every morning. I remember you

only as

.               a sleeping body. An

 

.                   exhale

 

.      Like the plastic water bottle in the car dicky –

.      rolling noiselessly, forever never full.

 

---

 

there is a butterfly in my bus

 

and she is looking in through the mirrorlike windscreen

.           at the neatly pressed white shirts

.           and the oiled, black-dyed hair and

.           the recklessly swinging lunch baskets

of proud working men in their fifties

who know the blue and white of this bus

.           like the soles of their feet

and the smells of the insides of their noses and mouths

 

where the sunlight ends its journey, where

secrets sit between gums and tonsils, where

unexplored shades of pink die,

.           because pink dies, pink dies,

sinless like the butterfly’s powdered brown belly,

.           pink dies, and the windows rattle and

.           the butterfly’s queer wingtips quiver

and i peel a dry orange near the sweaty

metal poles of the bus, that smell like the insides

of their mouths and noses,

 

.           but the butterfly’s mind cannot hold smells, cannot

know sweat, cannot know the laughter of the

concoction — of sunbeams and fingers and oil and

voices and breathing — peeling off the poles’ yellow paint,

cannot hold the pride of pressed shirts —

.           can only hold the green

.           of her wings like the colour of

my mother’s eyes and dreams, which i

 

left behind at home not because she

.           asked me to, but because they were too mad,

too large to take on a morning bus —

.           where the butterfly pauses to rearrange her little

.           black dots into summertime spirals

— with seats so narrow, so blue, so new that i

 

close my eyes and think the butterfly is a

.           piece of my orange peel that flew back in

through the window, is my mother:

.                             heavy

.                             from being small.

 

---

 

the witching hour

 

when it rains, i

wear bangles and

do the dishes because i

 

live in a building

.         full of women

.         and it is loud here,

it is so loud.

 

when it rains, we take

in our wet towels and

floral pillowcases

.          because we are old

now, and we are trying.

 

when it rains, we

try to hold each other’s names

in our mouths for a few seconds —

.          three pat-pat-pats

on the tin roof — before

.          letting them trickle

into each other’s ears.

 

when it rains,

.          we need to talk louder

and the shadows have footsteps

and the fans blubber and the

cats are all inside, and we are

.          old now, and we are trying.

 

when it rains,

we remember boys

that we don’t like,

so we open the windows

 

and say we have to wear

bangles and do the dishes,

 

because the rain is loud

but the women are louder.