When her eyes crinkle
like crushed crocuses,
the laughter that follows
is the color of saffron.

I will call her Pratiksha
for her gaze moving
across a room towards me,
still pins my voice to the throat

in want that is waiting.
Doesn’t desire complete itself
when the tongue of a candle
feeds on the body of air?

O, coming to the suburbs
of her body is like walking into
a spring meadow from Troy
after the Trojans have set sail.

So I wake and walk into another
April, under trees haloed in bud,
praising the wonder that is a single
sheet over two lovers in bed.

April 17, 2011


My Poems