~ come, find me ~
Stolen Dunhills
smoked like novices
on rooftops green with
algae and slime —
Monsoon rains
were rather fecund those days.
Jill and I
were twelve and man-crazy.
From our afternoon perch,
we lobbed
fat jamun* seeds at
the rakish devil next door,
and they gave him proxy
violet kisses and love bites.
Hysterical at his perplexity,
we rolled around in pigeon shit.
Dalliances stopped at that,
hormones being
in the custody of nuns
and grandmothers.
Mullahs,
like elusive night bugs,
were rarely glimpsed those days.
Our rakish devil is gone now.
Betrayed.
Assassinated.
You fire and I ether, Jill
locked in an elemental bond.
