I think I should have waited
before I showed you my garden..
I just wanted you to see
how big the trees have grown.

You were sitting on the edge of the hill,
throwing my mangoes into the river. 
I told you there were more of those around
but by then you had left them alone.

I didn’t know you kept the best ones
and secretly watched them rot.

Until you hurled them into my face,
blaming me for having fruits to show.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Atop oppressive wood
scratched by cutter blades
scathed by glass ends,
I carried the potion from the store
with thoughts of your perfect hands
mapping our destiny on my back.

You kneaded my needy skin
weeding out the numbness,
tracing edges kissing scars.
I fell asleep on misplaced sheets.
you pressed your lips on my retired eyes,
half-hoping-half-sure.

Now, masseuse, you are gone.
leaving a trail of finger prints
on my heart.

Vanilla soy is the scent
which will keep me still
until cartography strikes again.
 
 
 

From lovers we have become
mafia bosses,
our affairs turning into 
shams and scams,
our kisses becoming bribes
to get us on our knees.

We've made our friends warring families,
our floor boards hiding places,
coffers where trust
and other social graces
used to be.  

Only Robert De Niro
and our angry hearts
can create such intricate webs 
of pain.
 
 
 

Yesterday the engineer spoke
of lead smelting,
cracking open used
car batteries
to reuse old sources
of energy.

We were the modern day version
of atomic fusion.
From both sides catapulted
by forces we rode consenting,
sixty days prior on a Saturday night,
fuelled by gold spirits,
seven-hundred,
“My Best Investment,”
I used to say.

Until the collision’s explosion
left shards of salt crystals in our hearts.
I thought the smelting would get us through,
having faith in liquor spells,
resident naivete. 

Now there’s just lead weight
to smelt,
not melt,
but belt 
my tired scorched arms
palms burning.