All that he owned was a tamarind tree
even the land where the house stood was not his.
So, what is yours, the young wife asked coiling her finger
into his matted hair. His drunken eyes looked from her
to the pods on the tree, her skin the texture of seeds.
Eyes swimming like leaves in the breeze he recounted:
my mother made me a mirror of earth and river.
She laughed, but there is no river for miles around.
Here it is, he held her wrist. The nerve twisted in
sediments of the memory of her people. The river ran
below the skin of cantaloupe, in the musculature of soil
where the roots of the tamarind spread. She saw them
in the spine of her man and the fine branching of blue veins
in the neck as he arched towards her.