Poetry |
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By Sarah-Jane Parker
Submitted Dec 08, 2006 |
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We always has Chitwann mangoes at breakfast.
Plump, green dollops between our mingled fingers ,
Laughing, hungover, on the bustling street,
Smells of buff mo mo and daal baat ,
As its lunchtime but we’ve only just risen.
Sticky thighs and love in Thamel
We wander fish markets and rub
Marigolds on our wrists.
Chaahi: daina, bhaii.
I don’t need chiyaa, or opium, or silk carpets;
When you tap dance to make me laugh its enough.
Tikka for luck and strong sons
Yazmin for no sons for me.
It was something like love
When we lay staring in the semi-dark.
In the sultry moments of silence,
Between breathing.
Miro shrimaan.
We fought like littermates in rickshaws
Little bruises on my wrists, draped with sorbet bangles;
You kissed them sadly later when I slept,
And there were always Chitwann mangoes for breakfast.
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