Part I


A soft, sweetly moist bulge
of lustrously white skin
presses down on the fabric
that holds her in from me,
a soft, imperfect reminder

we yearn for the same skin.
We find it in another, but
there is no difference
in their frailties, their varicose veins
tangling them up in old age.

Our construct is universal,
though we search for the words
to differentiate each time.

I touch the softness of her belly
and she asks me, curiously,
what does love mean in Hindi?



Part II


I cannot find the words I am looking for
to show you the importance
of the chestnut trees’ sun glinted gyrations
or the way I imagine your skin feels
when it sweats, moisture hiding
in the recesses where your thigh
melds with your torso (what,
I wonder, is the proper term
for this meeting? And what does
this briny pooling of you mean?)
I can describe to you the act
of kissing your dented,
hollowed out crevices; the word
we usually save for such excitements,
however, falls short of doing
you or the chestnut tree justice.