Arsonist

But maybe,
she decided, looking east
down the road,
it was for the best.

No bus lurched forward
at the given time,
no cars came,
her suitcase stood heavily
by her legs,
a guard dog against
going home again.

The corn swished and clicked
its tongue at her,
silly girl
silly girl
the rustling whispered
as the sun trailed off to
some faraway place.
Leaving her by the dusty 
road to wait
or go,
to die
or fly.

And so it was made 
by the gods of fate
a car swooped by in 
the wee hours of night,
the stars still blinking awake,
and she climbed inside 
fearless,
on her face at least,
as the car bumped
her stomach along 
like hospital cafeteria jell-o.

A gone, gone girl.
As the fireflies smashed
against the windshield,
and left their glow for
a moment more,
before they were 
gone, gone too.

Before the corn 
could say
good-bye
silly girl,
little one
without a home.

Before the smoke
could sting her eyes
again, as the ashes
of her old life drifted down
like dust motes
on the wind.

Madam

The heart of the matter
is that she danced
on tabletops for
you.
Bent her body
like she had double
the vertebrae.
Swung around her
perfumed hair for 
you.

The light at the
end of this tunnel 
might be a train 
for you.
For her sake,
I hope it hits you
hard, but not hard 
enough for 
painless death.

She walked with
pretty brown feet
clad with golden anklets,
she kissed mustached
men for you.

You laid a hand down
on the acid you kept
like a sleeping snake,
and the soaps
rolled on on the
next room.

You said,
don't you dare jump.

Like a bird with clipped wings
she was kept in your pretty
cage
with the many white balconies,
from which the girls
waved and shook their hips
after dark.

Where the rupee notes went
they never asked.
Your hand was enough to 
dissuade them. And the little parlor
was crowded with men in the night,
whose pockets leaked coins and notes,
and she wanted one to say

you are beautiful,
come home with me.

One to be gentle, and leave 
her in peace,
but none did.

And how you came to selling skin,
no one is sure,
but they know you by the expensive
red polish on your acrylic nails.
By the way your pocketbook bulges 
as you shop.

As your girls eat cheap take-out kebabs
and chew pilfered paan to ease 
the soft stabs and forget this place for a moment,
before the soaps whisk them away.

She wants just one to stop before ripping
away her sari, one to say,

oh but your skin, so soft.
and smother her with small kisses.
But none do.

The story of one girl hanging by the ceiling fan,
another, she still lives in the house,
disfigured by the elusive acid. 
Her face melted and cold.

It comes as no surprise 
that you owe her lakhs of rupees,
that her family thinks she is dead,

but the heart of the matter is
that she is silent, and sways her body
for you.

Rural

Just as the wind died down,
blowing the last sun-stained
clouds out of sight,
we dribbled the dimpled
ball across the loose gravel
playing a game of p-i-g
pig. 

You elbowed my side,
knocked me to the rocks
and scuffed my knees
and forearms.
Never a word passed your lips
as I wiped my arms on 
your old sweaty shirt
I wore loosely over my 
dirty cut-offs.

I aimed the dusty ball at your face
and missed by a mile
it rolled into the 
weeping field next door,
littered with
beer cans and rusted-out cars.
I hoped you would dig for 
that old ball for hours,
hoped you'd skin yourself
up and get lock-jaw, maybe.

I turned before you
could hit me again and
rain into the crackerbox house
to pour alcohol on the 
gritty spots that bled.

Holding my breath
as it strung its way into
a pink swirl in the bathtub,
knowing mother was a sleep
in the cool dark bedroom
and knowing you'd take the truck
-I could here it rattle away-
to buy more beer to
throw away can by empty can
into the tall grass
to maybe grow yourself
a way out.