unclaimed

whoever claims this poem as their own

                                       i write for you

whoever claims me as i lie here alone
                               i belong to you

taxi ride

: tenga to balipara

man! are we packed

we are packed like

like sardines? it’s not a metaphor i can relate to

mine comes in tins, swimming in brine

like cigarettes? no, not so straight

like a pack of pringle maybe? but not all the same

more like misshapen corn on the cob

ya, corn. in orderly rows 
three ladies adjusted next to the driver. four 
people in the middle and four in the back

plus two kids in two laps

an old man on my left

wrinkled hands three rings one with a gem

i can feel his ribs against my elbow through our two jackets

­the tug of his intercostals when he coughs

a kid’s father on my right the dad’s elbow in my side

the kid leans on my arm sleeps eventually with his head on my hand

his ear touching my thumb his scapula against my forearm

jammed against one another leg against leg all the way to the calves

thigh against thigh crushing phones and cigarette packs

knees bent into the back of the seats in front

we’re packed so tight our pelvic girdles touch

i can feel thin muscles tense if they so much

as contemplate a movement

we are cushioned like a fragile shipment packet

and i start thinking of jackets

i’m wearing one of my dad’s

i think i’ll keep it. it’s served me quite a bit, as clothing goes

against cold and dust and sharp elbows

and then it doubles as my pillow 
through nights when we don’t have beds or a place to stay

and the way it’s looking now, he wouldn’t want it back anyway

i should get it dry-cleaned at the end of the trip though

i’ve always been curious about  dry-cleaning

but never bothered to find out how it works, meaning

is it like a dry-wash in some volatile solvent soaking inside-out?

dry-cleaning sounds more like just a dry wipe i think

a surface scrub with alcohol or something

ah! breakfast stop

time for the corn to pop

you’ll understand (when you have kids of your own)

there’s an owlet on the electric wires

watching over the empty plot

amidst high rises, waiting

by the street light for the larger moths

i see it sitting alone and my heart skips a beat

i’ve seen electrocuted bats draped in singed leather

the little owlet has large wings and

the wires are close together

mindwarp

i see something beautiful

and my mind’s like a tree

          with three
               blackbirds in it

one wants to feed

           a goshawk
           its heart, one wants to flee

             and one thinks it could do
                                        with a fuck


.......................................................................................

thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird, by wallace stevens

treacherous dreams

i had that cruel dream again

the cruelest dream of all

the dream of you returning

in a golden-leafed  fall

you smiled and we hugged

we kissed and all was well

not a word was spoken

for there was so much to tell

but then i couldn’t even remember your eyes

one was sea-green, crystalline

and the other was a shattered-sky blue

so i guess i knew it couldn’t be true

the last days you thought horrible

ponderous grey clouds lie layered

like a heavy cotton quilt spilt low, smeared

with ink or melancholy or fallen overripe jamun

touching the distant tree tops. coming down

behind streaked white buildings and the desolate

skeletons of new ones coming up. and though it’s late

there’s a constant hammering that resonates

with the pounding of my heart that refuses to abate

the squirrels chatter incessantly the dogs lie asleep

a dozen flowers on the jarul a jezebel flies up to me

a gate shuts with a hollow jangle the hinges rattling

the breeze passes through me like i was travelling

and i can almost see distant hills on the horizon

hidden by the clouds that the wind’ll drive away anon.

your fingertips caress my hand and you eye me ruefully

but i’m not here anymore my love. i’m gone on ahead already

for old times’ sake

no you won’t be told
that you were missed

i believe you believe i’m over you

and it’s best that the feeling persists

fine, i’ll be you witness

i’ll tell you how much you’ve changed

and i’ll tell you of all the ways in which
you are still the same

yes, i’ll listen to you tell me too

and i’ll wonder if you are comparing me

to the me that you remember or
the person you’re now seeing