Poem
The Palm Reader
Over the steaming pilaf
Eyes like old raisins
He tells me
"I read palms" I an American laugh
And try to explain to him
What we mean when we say
There's a bridge I can sell Afternoons I write
Hot words stamp their feet
Sumptuous blue nail polish
He trails me with raccoon eyes The heat jazzes me
Stoking forgotten fires
I open the door
My inner thighs salty What the hell I think
In New York I'd have bedded
Him between the cocktails
And tchotchke-shopping Marriage is a frayed song
When lyrics fall
I stand on carpet
Lustrous as a old ghazal He fumbles with words
The garden wanders
Into the room
With its pigeon coos But no, not here
Amid listening corridors
Ardor dampens
In the sequined splendor "I'm fine" I say, "thank you"
The day cools
Sunlight wanes, then sighs
An India trip wraps to a close. * Farhana Mazhar Ali is based in Chicago and is currently in Hyderabad.
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