tip for monsoon

clove oil 

sprayed on every surface

saves objects from 

the relentless armies

of fungus and mold.

who knew the kinds

of things that grow?

little hairs of filaments

gentle dust of spores

if D sprays clove oil on 

their old watercolors,

the pigments may change.

*

two unseasonable 

april showers later,

the mulch is dry again.

but the air nearly hums

with all that held water.

this is where we will live,

in a see-through soup,

until different days arrive.

the rain is many-hoofed 

and persistent. the rain likes

to be heard, to be felt, through

the creases in your raincoat,

in the ankles of your shoes.

the rain knows you are asking

yet again: who will i be 

this monsoon? how will i love?

will it make sense, all the turns

taken in dry months? will it

make sense, the endless days

turning to dust in my fingers?

the rain is thrilled

to blur your vision again

to fill your mouth with water

if you ask too hard

and do not sit in the silence

of thunder and rain-hooves

your skin wet but finally

feeling again

the singing

O broken world

thank you for having

me here & also broken

thank you for breaking

me in this way

long muscle in the leg

aching, aching

vibrant green of my heartspace

muddied by all the grief

there is so much to cry about

yet it is hard to cry

all the grief lives like rocks

in the riverbed of our souls

it is what moves the water 

through, what causes burbles

O broken world

today I cried at how nothing

can ever be perfect or even

just okay: this wild & tender

living breaks me, aches me

yet imperfections are what 

make us, the glitches in genes

shape us: species upon species

& each one buzzing in aliveness

feather colors popping, & textures

& faces, little hairs waving, & all the

delicate physics required to work

an ear. All comes via error. & here

we are, and we can hear.

& how the songs all make us cry.

O broken self, so the songs can slice

through us & beyond. O broken world

you are my heritage & I will learn

to love you, to live you, to sing

word for word

After the thunder rush, in the wide open space
of that moment between us -
I feel the words wandering up my throat.
They come from the sticky honey of joy.
They are only three.
They would tie us together.

We don't know if we want to be tied.
But I must share this sweetness.

I love doing this with you, I tell you,
And my heart widens at the wide truth of that -
intimacy, mother of all pleasure, has been
blooming between us, & I love doing intimacy
with you - and car rides and breakfasts -
you cooking for me & me coming up
behind you to hold you, the full length
of our two creature bodies, pressed up
& warm while outside it pours. Come on,
let's get back into bed. The world has paused.
Nothing makes any sense. Isn't it lovely.

I love doing this with you, life. How many
times yet to fall. How many monsoons,
how many limbs that twine with mine.
Backs yet to discover new scars on.
I am not alone here. There are others.
All heart & guts & ears to the world.
Sometimes their words
line up with mine.
So nothing needs to be said.

it has begun

in the rain

a bowl of oranges. a disco ball.

a cat in a bag. a dusty ashtray.

tree trunk full of little mushrooms.

a purple flower by my purple lighter.

the smiles of strangers, & my faith

now that i know i owe them nothing.

i owe myself - i owe this earth - i owe

ancestors & spirits. i want to live 

my owing life brightly

& with love. i want to pay back

& pay back & pay back 

generously & gladly

by living, by loving

first of all this spirit-vessel.

in the rain this body is moody,

can snuggle for hours. wants

to be kissed in the neck & held

like they are loved. now they know

they are loved. i love them. i hold.

still there is pleasure in the

unfamiliar touch

of another, in iridescent fingernails,

the metal of a lip piercing caught

in a kiss, the serious mouth of one

i might love. i did love, i do love,

i am back to a youth of tossing

love from my basket of love.

have it i have more to give.

but i will not let you take from me.

not now, not irreversibly. 

in the rain i tend

to my kitchen, my corridors,

my balcony garden for hours.

i dig into my compost. i am making

soil, dark & crumbly & rich. 

mud-stained, i nap in the rain,

in a warm hollow in my bed.

here is where it is beginning:

the rest of this, of everything. 

a blink & we are already in it,

in the gluey jelly of this moment,

in the giant steaming pot of time

that never moves & never stills.

there is more to learn & it is

crunchy & delicious to be alive.

& awful & aching. & warm & wet

in this rain. yesterday & tomorrow.

on failing

there are so many zips inside my bag,

& they are all open, like open mouths.

i fumble, try to pull the zipper with two fingers

& i fail, & hurt my little hands, & what is new. 

i fail at loving, at living well, at discipline

& regularity, at tending to this body-boat perfectly.

over & over i fail at perfection, at forgetting, 

at a straight spine, at letting go. i even fail at failing.

the months pile on like yellow leaves at a window,

or dust. nameless and indistinguishable as dust.

occasionally i fail with passion & gusto,

a made-up song on my windstruck lips. 

what else is there to do on this blessed earth,

this blessed & cracked & sticky earth? come

sit with me by a lake or a corner, feed me a berry

& learn how to love me. fail with me & we wouldn't

have lost a thing, we'd be filled with air & float

down the streets, nameless & glad as the dust.

touchdown

every morning i wake up lost
as a lone creature in an odd world

that cycles on regardless

of how i feel or whether

i can make meaning of it all

whether i can make meaning at all

a lover leaves. the leaves arrive.

this story is endless. lovers and leaves.

the sea fills with wind. the sun dips

to horizon, still fat, and vanishes 

at the line even though it seemed

for a second that it really won't,

that the vastness of the moment

would stay breathless and still.

but it keeps moving. it cycles on.

touching the ocean with a single toe

and seven minutes later, no sign left

of the unbelievable orb, just a bright

mist where it was swallowed by sea.

that's going to be me. just some

decades to go, breathless moments,

lovers and leaves, learning and lostness.

the sharp smell of mint in the early morning.

before the rains

In anticipation, everything is dried and reheated
in April sun. Dogs and flowers and sheets laid out

listless in the soup-like air. All the roads are dug up,

in progress, tar steaming at noon, the spinning of dust.

On the scooter ahead of me, the woman's sari

is so perfect, red pleats embroidered with gold,

that I don't speed past them. I follow, let the light

bounce off her fit. It's the best thing to happen all day.

If there is a right way to be, it has not been told to me.

I love too hard     too quick     it does not work. I slip.

The coconut trees shed their leaves like large, tangible

promises. Drying in the heat. Ready to reach the ground.

And me? Some days I am a healthy plant. Some days

a gap in the room through which you can see the moon.

There is something I wait for. But it does not come

until it comes. Until it comes, I will wait for rain.

thru the darkness

this time around i have decided

that even through the darkness

                                                    i will dream.

yes right now my body is gloop

& my brain on fire yes

yes it hurts so bad to be alive

again i am here

again i will return

but that means i get to leave

i do not need to live here among the slime & shame

i get to leave behind everything i want to leave.

i get to build. a life. i get to make new things.

i have gotten better at the darkness.

i will keep getting better at the darkness.

and in the future i will have a little house.

a garden. a black stone pond with lilies snaking thru

the darkness, and the lilypads fragile islands for frogs.

an art studio filled with light. a loft. a balcony with chairs.

every corner mine, created in love with the world.

in the future i will be safe, and my very own.

perhaps one day i will even mother another,

soon as i master how to mother this unruly self.

in the future i will make. i will move thru darkness

as i do today. i will make & think & read & write.

i will eat elaborate meals with ghee & herbs.

i will have company that holds my heart kindly.

i will go for long walks in beautiful places,

& forget all the times i forgot how to live.

this is it, this is this life. what else to do but move

thru. what else to do but make what you want

to exist. every part of it, year on year. let it go

when it gets old. there is so much more to let go

in this life than there is to hold on to. lightness

is the only truth, both infinitely tender and harsh.

you do not need to carry this heavy & dark. meet it,

and shed it, let it pass thru you into rivers & seas.

you are simply a vessel, light as air. what do you own,

but the ability to hold, the ability to drop, the sense

of a story about it all? the ability to make. this breath

& how it fumbles with me thru the darkness, despite.

this body & the space it still has for respite.

spring in the tropics

new moon & the first day of spring:

i missed it. i am still deep in snow,

heaviness is still calling my name.

i haven't yet seen the new sliver in sky,

have craned my head on my scooter

and seen only the stars among the trees.

somewhere, spring calls forth everything

that was buried in ice, allows death

to unfold upon the earth. fertilizer for all

the new beauty yet to come. and here,

there's only flowers on every streetside,

no fists of snow, no undersides of ice. 

december is blue skies and the beach.

january, even bluer. what a life.

and april, the cruellest month, is yet

to arrive. breeding/ lilacs out of the dead ground,

mixing/ memory and desire, stirring/ dull roots

with spring rain. even here, where the ground

wasn't dead: something did die. everywhere

something dies, a moment ends. everything

that ever happened is added to the endless pile:

memory. and even if we mix desire to this

trembling material, what will we manage to make?

perhaps newness, this time. perhaps tonight

i'll see it, the moon, still fresh from its nights

in the dark, scrubbed clean and barely ready

for another cycle, growing to fullness

and then falling away, becoming nothing,

losing everything. sliver so delicately

placed, such a tender little thing,

a fingernail hesitating on the back of a lover.

a lover, the night. springtime suffused 

with love, real love, the blooming

and the death, the tenderness

and wildness

of being alive. 

again and again,

cycle on cycle.

new moon & the first day of spring

a hundred times over,

and then something else.

goodbyeing

how odd that

every single life you build

out of air and water and what

once felt like love

will leave. this one too, 

the afternoon light fine-tuning a rosy orange

on your walls, the tang of morning yoghurt,

the jamun wrapped in newspaper a friend

brought you at a party. how your hair

falls to the sides and flaps in the wind

on your scooter. the majesty of coconut trees

on the way home, long leaf-fingers quivering.

someday, sooner or later, goodbye to all this.

not the first goodbye and not nearly the last.

i've said goodbye to more. to days that felt

more real than these. to ankles that tangled

with mine for months. i've said goodbye

to snow, goodbye to dust storms, goodbye

to my childhood. goodbye to the dreams 

too heavy to carry, even to some fears

i thought were woven into my bones.

turns out nothing is woven

into my bones, not even my unsturdy i.

someday, goodbye too to this body,

unpredictable and ashen, sometimes

glowing before dusk, sometimes giddy.

turns out i can carry nothing, not even

myself. how odd this life made only

of lightness. no point living unless

you open your heart-gates, let longing

stream into the world. love everything,

let it pile upon you. know it will

fall away, every last crumb. still you add

another card, another card, until an angle

makes everything crumble. again you build,

over all the years. get better at losing. a heart

that knows love is a heart that knows loss.

where else to go but onwards, confused

and empty and full and giddy and onwards.