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