Two Sides
At the Indian joint,
the old man who walked in
had a telltale sleepiness
in his eyes;
he looked at everything
through a screen of longing,
a half-formed smile
of retreat —
young couples fretting
over spoonfuls of food,
babies sleeping,
the bustle in the place,
the business of life in general.
There were two sides already;
he stood on one,
life, on the other.
Frame
There was already the story
of the people in sepia —
two women and a man
leaning against the bonnet
of a Bentley,
an England street
behind them.
To that,
the ghosts of droplets
that had dried across the surface,
edges of the picture swollen and curled,
added another frame.
A Prayer for the Butcher
With regular ones,
he takes liberties,
draws out the chats,
with finicky ones,
he’ll go a step further,
throw in a tease or two
to sweeten the deal.
‘Only for you,
the choicest cut.
Two packs per chicken,
just as you like.
I won’t go the trouble for everyone,
you are special.
Say a prayer
for me in turn.’
‘Just did, and always will.’
I said in what I thought
was a fiercely reciprocal bid.
‘Tell me. What did you pray for?’
He wanted to vet
the contents of my prayer,
as if there was
anything else I could ask for,
besides
a happy home,
grateful children,
enough to live by,
peace in his heart,
the least and the most
we all desire.
Of all our utterances on earth,
a prayer is, perhaps,
the easiest
to work into template.
The Belly Dancer
White waves undulating
from breast to belly,
waist guarded like a treasure
in a cast of chimes,
practiced beats
on her small feet,
red-painted toes ringed.
Aware, like a goddess,
of the spell she cast
in the room.
How many times
had they undressed her
in their minds,
run their fingers
on her dimpled flesh,
pried open the cast
that chained her navel.
Their eyes had glazed over,
they were gods,
towering over her.
In the gaze of the women,
there was a journey
from fear to envy
then defeat.
After some time,
between what she read
in the eyes
of men and women,
there was no difference at all.
Pirate Filter
Always a good idea
to spunk up the holiday pics
with a filter.
Nothing screamed fun,
beach, sand, and sun,
like the wantonness
of buntings
or a rainbow.
She tried several,
all fell short one way
or the other – Mickey, Rapunzel,
Frozen, and glitter.
The pirate filter worked best,
she found;
the patch hid the spot
where he had given her
a blue eye.
Karachi
They say you can take the man out of the city,
but not the city out of the man.
It echoes behind my eardrums
muffled boom of bullet
dulled by window glass
rattle of gun
raining
in dead of night
It lies behind my eyes
garden of corpses strewn
red of bloom,
red of doom confused.
It breaks my sleep
spell of breaking sweat
as I wake, hapless
from a dream of fear.
It trails inside my mind
as ever-present fear
no matter where I am
someone is following close behind.
It beats in my temples
remembered rub
graze of nozzle
cheek of metal kissing cheek of man
The city is lodged,
second mind within my mind.
They were right.
You can take a man out of the city,
but not the city out of the man.
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