The Woman of Kutch The woman of Kutch, Living in grasslands Favored by raj And ibis, flees The earthquake and Monsoon that leveled The Gujarat Three or four Thousand years ago. For this occasion She wears a dress Embroidered in red And yellow cotton An aba covers The sakral which Begins the stem Of a sunflower rising To a shower Of light, all in Mirrors, surrounded By grassy fields. She carries three Steel pots of water On her head and With her left arm She caresses another. With her right arm She shields her eyes Against the sun, Into which she races.
At the Track She crosses her legs, this girl of twelve, her hat A crown, brim bouncing in a breeze. She reads Her book, maybe--maybe not--lost in thought Or reverie, a boy perhaps, or ice cream, or song. The horses run around the track, the shouts From others, the cheers for cash, the sweat and scent Of animals...she wets her finger and turns A page. The blood in her left foot is kissed, Amidst cries and hoots and hooves, a tickle From a mosquito, the boy beside, the itch.
The Truth About My Underwear I picture myself As you are doing right now... Standing half-naked Clothed with but a brief... Brief, then leaping off the stage taking myself Hostage. Me, holding me hostage. So I think to myself, Don't make any sudden moves. You're in your underwear. I set the demands: A mil in unmarked bills; A bus with Wi-Fi and streaming subscription; And pizza: tomato with feta. No anchovy. No anchovy or else. No one gets hurt unless You scream real loud Or someone faints and I have to call 911. Or anchovies. If there're anchovies, or screaming fits-- The underwear comes off. The underwear. Comes. Off. And we know the truth. And you know very well what they say: No one ever forgets the truth.