What would mark the slowness of time
as the daylight spreads like the dust of chalk, moves with the bees
on the terrace?

I hear the sharp call of parakeets
from the branches of the mango tree that grows from the seed she spits
a summer afternoon holding the fruit like a bowl of sex.

She floats near the ceiling the days he keeps away
visiting the dancer who peregrinates the temple
like an exquisite sea animal.

Bluest light pools the craters gutted in the womb
ejecting the uterine wall. She quivers at the interface with earth –
hard mantle collapses and the softness of love leavens his departure.

The Cursed Flower

She sits at the edge of the tide, the sky
bleaches the folds of her neck. The flowers in the skirt 

deceptive take colors from the house. She fashions a tunic
tasseled with strands of time when every event takes a step back.

As the weight of emptiness rests on the rosewood chair
her mind drops into the silenced bowl of the day.

The clock hands tremble with particles of constancy: the clover
fragrant in the smoked fish on the counter, the dust in air

fed by flecks of coal hefted from the stove as corn fobs
gyrate in the squall of hunger. The tongue of the Pandanus flower bears

the language of the silenced deity, she slices the rosette of curse
weaves the fragrant strand in her hair to stitch the gash of shame.

The Monsoon Story

The last monsoon the black scorpions were restless
we fogged them with steam, brew tea in a mud pot.

The fire in the stove flared from the squall
as the cyclone moved toward the coast and lashed

tall waves on the church. My hair was braided with scented oil
to nest the snakes that came from the well in large numbers:

that was the only way to tease them out. The leaves rested
in the gutter as the algae in nebulous howl went down the pipe.

The door breathed with moisture, expanded in girth
across my chest, as I sat in the firewood room.

In the intimacy of my body, the full moon swelled
through layers of cloud, stitched my sap to the cycle of the earth.

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