SU-PRABHATAM

It’s early I’m up today
watching the sun’s reflection
rising in the warmed
window pane

So it’s morning
Birds try to say
not yet.
You snore

Not yet.
Na iti.
Not this.
Yes.


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ANATOMY

I've let dreams
lead me
into the night,

rinse and repeat
sadnesses that
the heart recognizes.

People are
strangers,
their worlds stranger

I always go away too far,
it’s a good thing you did
waking me up

Saying, it‘s the bad air
that makes nightmares--
I call it breath.

_

JULIET

It’s morning already
cogs turning clear
annoyingly bright

If I were sensible
I would start the long road
to my parents’ home now

You huddle me under the sheets
your joints locked
into corners around me
hunger and the scent
of love close
enclose me

I’m wrestling you
for the freedom to breathe,
laughter choking my lungs

You exert your lover’s rights
to drip saltily on me
I reach to wipe your brow
but o, my love, my heart--
your eyes…


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For the Love of Mike

As a precocious high-schooler, I used to review Madras (now Chennai) theater for the now defunct (what did you expect, they hired me as a stringer) Sunday Mail. Which meant that in every production i reviewed, i was treated to Michael Muthu in various roles for two years straight--and that as a result of such constant exposure, my friends and I developed a collective low-grade crush on him.

One morning, sitting in on a rehearsal with MM and his girlfriend, whose name I’ve conveniently forgotten, he asked me if I had seen Scarface because it was his favorite ‘film’.

I’ve never been able to watch more than two scenes from Scarface,* not even for the love of Mike. But my mom was watching Al Pacino in And Justice for All last night, and it occurred to me that (a) It was precisely the kind of role that Ol’ Mike loved to perform (b) He really, kinda, maybe looked like Al Pacino.

That Narcissist :)!

_________________________________
* I think mostly because of the OTT nouveau mob home decor.

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O.P.I.nion

I usually groom meself.

But my mom’s here and sent me off for some pampering and that’s how I came to be at the salon face-to-face with a poster for the new O.P.I. India Collection.

It must be that my head’s still grappling with all the writing I really ought to be doing because I end up obsessively (and needlessly) parsing the names of the shades. Surely Royal Rajah Ruby is tautological? (Rajahs are by definition royal, no?) And surely Lunch at the Delhi is inauthentic? (It falls short of actually eating in Delhi, it‘s at best a restaurant called “The Delhi,” perhaps with cutesy pun on “deli.“)



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ARGUMENT

The afternoon fails;
Calls out for dreams.
Comes to at two.


As you probably know;
I’m poor at keeping score.
Smile. Why. Smile.

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Adventures in Breastfeeding

It’s a good thing that I’ve been paying such close attention to Baby A as she nurses.
I dreamt last week that a giantess with ginormous boobs was my only source of sustenance.

***

According to the breastfeeding manual, babies need to empty one breast before moving to the other one because the hind-milk that emerges at the end is the fatty stuff that chubbies da babies up while the foremilk tends to be thin and watery. I was reading this out aloud to my mom, when she deadpanned--perhaps it would be simpler to shake well before use. Ha!

***

It may or may not be true that everybody needs a bosom for a pillow, but Baby A totally believes that shit.

***

To me, my boobs seem little more than milk bottles right now. Still, when some concerned gentleman at the supermarket suggests that I should probably zip up my down vest since it’s so cold outside, I think (no matter how sleep-deprived I am) it’s a bit much to tell him that my boobs are now so huge that that’s impossible.



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