recess

what madness stung
the hearts of boys,
sick with playing nice,

what thirst pressed heavy
on the bone thrilled them to
break a hundred homes,
cackling in delight?

the bees are dying, boys - what madness
stings the hearts of men?

after the fact

No nightingale,
no pain transformed to beauty,
Cracked tongue lodged in this human throat,
I croak broken notes
to sing of you.

7 minutes or until pasta is tender

7 minutes or until pasta is tender,
let's fill ourselves in different ways:
nibbling on tidbits of our days,
the dreams that leave us gasping;
tell me about your hunger
and
simmer with me.

Poetry can be like

forgetting to brush your teeth:
something collects on your tongue
before even waking
an overwhelming need to spit

peck

brevity's the soul of wit but
your lips stretch
forever;

curl into a question mark, love,
let me lay some knowledge on you.

042616

line me in blackest graphite, blur 

me into loving you, i choose 

softness.

the kids want bollywood

The kids want Bollywood
something more North and more West

glittering cloth, bouncing bare hips
praise of lips
on national TV

not so much the kitha-dom of me

------

back home
they learn to point their toes,
the redde is lowered,
hatte bejewled,
mandiya straightened out.

they loosen their palms and step lightly.

we say, it's very indian, it's very western, it's pretty and also
it's very necessary.

the beravas have been dying a long time.

------

I work with a lady who says
give me just a flavour of "Senegalese"

I lean in with a stifled wince: I
crush me beneath a hundred cultures, I
grind me to spiced dust, scatter me.

------

no one knows that
I think of you

in my curled arms
draped across this curving waist,

seeking to see yourself
in half-dropped eyes,

find yourself on
half-laugh mouth.

I think of you in the
tharikita-kun-dath-

I even think of you in the
thah

your body rigid, you gasp me in.

------

#WhatItsLikeToBeADesiGirl
am I a desi girl?

#WhatItsLikeToBeADesiGirl
to be pressed into an even tone

------

the kids want Bollywood, I try to be what they want me to be

------

rivers

ottawa was most of all
the sturdy curve of collarbone,
slope of loose embrace:
a place to rest a burning cheek.