On saying “Good Morning” after dinner

we talk about love across
phone lines
love across oceans
love across continents
that hold each other in fists
we hold each other in pixels

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On Midnight Protests

I should learn how to draw clenched fists.

I was never good at drawing
hands. My fingers deformed on
paper; thumbs grew longer than
ring fingers smaller than
indexes. Their beginnings and
ends made no sense to my pen.

The Dancer and her Muse.

Watercolour and Acrylic on Posterboard: 2011.

nrtta. nrttya. naattya.
stomp, step, feel

naattya.
– you lie beautifully. the lamp shines liquid gold on your
skin as smooth as brass-perhaps,
which they rub and rub and rub to clean you, to purify
the soul in your eyes which roll up and down and side
to side as if they see through me and behind me, tracing over my
clavicle, your eyelashes flicker on me, around the edges
of my lips into my flesh. you lie beautifully;
rasas line your face, each wrinkle bordered in bhayanaka-black
a threatening green and krodha-red, widening
your eyes, the purity they created reflects me
instead- eyeliner lashes up and out in
vengeance ready to stab my
heart over and over in return for ruining you.

On Falling Out of Love.

It’s easy to fall in love. It happens quickly, almost unnaturally. That’s why we call it “falling” to begin with, right? It has gravity on its side. One day, you’re not in love and the next day, you are. The world changes abruptly. The same mundane sights you pass day after day suddenly seem to compete for attention. Everything is worth your touch and everything receives it.

Wishlist From Kerala

I want you to bring back
kaapi in those small glasses you can
see his eyes through while you watch
him pour the tea and the milk in a type of
neat choreography over the metal
counter you lean on, and the

How to Survive Winter.

Layer up, they say. So wear four of them, at least.

A top with lace that makes you feel pretty and reminds you of summer nights you spent lying on a rough terrace watching the moon move through the stars while an old Malayalam song played from someone’s grainy cellphone speaker. Occasionally, there’d be autorickshaws arriving below with patients for the residents sitting up there with you, and as the duty doctor heads downstairs, you’d think of how different life can be even when it’s lived out of similar sorts of textbooks.

Canvas: Painted with Acrylic, Dented with a Butter Knife.

Nothing New.

I will cut my daughter’s hair
dress her in beige and black and brown,
preferably in shirts with denim collars
and large knit sweaters and pants
with triple layers.

Acrylic on Canvas.

Forsaken
[for a boy, a man, a society, a god.]

കൊടികള്‍ക്ക് വേണ്ടി.

Flickr by mattlogelin

ഒന്ന്.

ശ്യാമ സുന്ദര കോടി കൊടികളുടെ നാട്.
പച്ചയില്‍ കുതിര്‍ത്ത- ദൈവം, മഞ്ഞയില്‍ കവിഞ്ഞ- പുനിതന്‍, കടും നീലയിലും കാവിയിലും സാരംഗവരകളിലും പണിത- സാമുഹ അവബോധം, ചോരചുവപ്പില്‍ – വിയര്‍പ്പ്, അരിവാള്‍, മറ്റേതോ നാട്ടില്‍ കുഴിച്ചു മൂടിയ ഒരപ്പൂപ്പന്‍ (മാര്‍ക്സ്).
അങ്ങനെ അങ്ങനെ എത്രയെത്ര നിറങ്ങള്‍.

What I Ask of You

Searching for Signs of my Mother.

Why does the sky never get dark around here?

I mean, dude, they call it midnight black for a reason.
But around here, nine o’clock is ash gray and midnight is battleship gray,
But I’m looking for those bullets in white. They told me
you are a star now

beneath Her canvas

The Artist herself is dual-natured. She has two distinct souls and thus, two different pairs of windows into them. She speaks with one and thinks with the other, sees with one and looks with the other. One can never tell where she begins and ends, or even which she she truly is. The hers are both hers.

In Response to Why She Can’t

This is a continuation of sorts. A quick, fragmented thought (reaction?).

Bright, white wings. The little girl’s biggest dream was to fly. She pinned a new white feather each day.

Bright, white wings. She was ready to grow up.

.

Then one day, she dyed them bright pink. It was surely just a fad. She wanted them to stand out. After all, they were still wings, just full of color to boot.

Bright, pink wings. Outstretched to cover her double.