Red Chillies

113° Fahrenheit on
the third day of May.
In Guntur,
every red chilli in the market
as if by concert
bursts
into sharp-tongued flames

and

the air breaks
into loud
applause.

Chimera

In the day, a door
  solid, brown, normal.
Perhaps the swirls tell their ancient stories.
Perhaps grain speaks to wood
  in old, soft whispers
that the day can’t hear.

Night, a streetlamp throws a ladder
  of light at the foot of the door.
The trees come calling in the shadows
  and the door’s wood
answers.

Don’t awake at night, don’t lie
under the covers and watch the door –
  for it moves. A creature shakes itself awake.
Its eyes are in the knots of wood,
  sunken and fierce; its tail lashes at the edges,
at the hinges. The door creaks

in the wind. The curtains billow.
  The whole room is alive. Don’t awake
because the door has begun a chant
that is faint but audible; a murmur,
  an incantation, an appeasement
to what is alive but not yet risen.

Songlines: Six

Our conversation was short and sweet:
you said, “Lean a little this way and say something.”
And I, draping myself neatly over the chair,
obediently said, “Something.”

Now, over a year later, your sudden grin
has kept me talking. It’s your turn now.

Say something.