Bruises

What he said
(As he blew kisses at her)

This is why you should be black like me:
If I bite your tempting lips now
They would take at least
Three days
To heal.

What her mother said
(Seeing her deep in dreams)

Whatever you let him do to you
Wherever you let him lead you
Whatever happens between you
Don’t let him hurt you just don’t
Let him leave a scar.

What she said
(To herself, alone at night)

Healing time:
Three days
For a bruised lip.
Seven lifetimes
For her battered heart
That he could
Leave behind. . .

The First Late Night Phone Call

the first late night phone call.
he starts off with morgan’s theory.
evolution. taboos. sex roles.
i listen (lost in a love that hasn’t left my lips)
as he goes on about the origin of family,
marriage, the invention of money, monogamy.

as he tells me of the way we had come
i listen and learn by heart
that what lies ahead
is our long love story . . .
where it will always remain
too early for arguments.

Speaking in Tongues

i only write poetry

but what wonders
my lover works with words

we meet on a moody day — i have bundled away
my soul and with it my urge for all gestures
but once alone and out of habit he waits
for my hand on his chest for my lips
on his eyelids for my human-bomb
rush into his hands but i sit still
so he decides to say something
hesitancy slurs his speech yet
i catch his words drifting over
two tongues as if it were an
urgent secret

chellam i love you
if you don’t mind,
will you love me?

i stop my sulking and i sink to my knees and
tracing his thoughts with my tongue

i love him