Letter X

I used to be proud of the letter X—

the two I carry in my body,

how it spilled from my hips,

the slants I traced on blank paper.

The bus smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke.

My shawl rebelled out of place—

fabric brushing my skin,

loosened from the grip of safety pins.

The handlebars were too high to hold.

I closed my eyes, bit my lip,

my hands tightened around my bag.

Eyes feasting on my face

fixed on the gray blinds.

The pepper spray remained unopened.

The phone remained untouched.

I covered a bruise on my skin

with my shawl—

a burn mark from a cigarette.

I felt your hand on my shoulder,

one finger pointing at them,

three at me,

and one to the heavens.

Tomorrow you will buy me

a long-sleeved dress

and a skirt long enough

to sweep the floor,

tell me to cover up

my scars.

My wound stings more

when rustled by new clothes.

Purple Petals

You

came rushing in

one hand shielding your head

and you smelled of drenched ten-rupee notes.

A plastic cover

with a distorted bulge at the bottom.

Onions—

purple layers feigning innocence.

My eyes lingered

on the half-spent

tissue roll.

The wooden chopping board—

crab-shaped cracks carrying

traces of our past meals

and masala stains.

Kitchen walls absorbing

dull thuds.

Metal on wood—

the arrogant boasts

of a newly sharpened knife.

Tomorrow

as your fingers unknot office papers,

I will peel back purple layers

and smell of wooden boards

and raw onions.

The gravy will be red

with translucent petals floating

the way you like.