Each particle of spice
is a tiny box,
locked with flavour.

Patient, prolonged heating
is the key.

Once all the boxes have been unlocked,
let the cooker rest.

While the wok sits silently
in a corner, cooling down,
recall the blobs of oil,
yellow with resolve,
sputtering out of it.

Fenugreek fumes or cumin mist —
it doesn’t matter to the chimney,
which knows nothing but acceptance.

All a vapour needs
is a cool wall.

And then it condenses,
drips down
the flaky white paint
as your moist finger
chases
its turmeric trace.

Cramped for room,
we lean on the hard wall.

I try to spin a cushion
out of my questions.

But you know what you want.

To enter the same bar at the same time
isn’t a painting,

but it must mean something.
Even if the meaning is narrow

as a path running along a canal.
Apartments on either side of the water

rise like exclamation marks.
Does sitting on their balconies scratch

the cloud-softness of the sky’s eyebrows?
As I head downstairs,

live music washes down the air’s dry throat.
In my glass, a stirring gulp of starless night–

the icy clink of a love held alone.

You imagine saving
a conversation for after

dinner, like a soft-baked
cookie. Your enthusiasm

white as milk.
In a life of crisp bites,

how does a tender landing feel?
Has it ever been about words?

Muffled sounds slipping away
from you on pretext

of getting a drink, smoking
a cigarette.

As you walk past shut shops,
drunk kisses & misty

windows, night’s cold arm
wrapping around your waist;

stars’ chocolate-chip hotness
light years away.

What colours do you carry
in your chest?

Does your breath smell
of autumn?

Your morning’s crispness
lingers over my face;

as I close my mouth,
my lips hurt like words

unuttered.

In midst of cafe-noise
you ask me to write down

my name.
What fills

the frosty spaces between
letters you’ve known your whole

life? You wait to understand
my answer with

the patience of a hot drink.
You’re only a table’s width

away, but your words sound
like they have looked out

from windows, walked for
miles. What terrains did they

traverse? What seasons
did they endure?

When it’s time to go,
you leave like a leaf.

I hang around like a branch,
bare;

the sky above me
dark as regret,

but also a forest
scrunching under my feet.

I finally ask you
if this is your first time
in the group.

Little do I know
what we are heading
into,

as if gunpowder thrown
on canvas.

How fine is the line
between art
and neglect?

We find no descriptions
next to the exhibits;

no QR code
to scan.

You step back
for wider view
of a triptych.

I grimace
after you spot
a sneeze of blood.

You ask
if it was
too much;

I think autumn,
downfall,
war.

In a darkened
room,

a film plays;
we decide

not to go there.

We loiter
on the brink, like desire

that burns
but doesn’t

explode.

Green & wrinkled,
you peel me off

like wallpaper.
You agree

a river runs
under my feet

but you want the sun
in your flat,

a view of pyramids.
I stand there

like a line
I can’t recall,

as you inhale
my dust,

your nails
smelling

of my naked
brick.

The whiff of olive oil,
warmed up;

peppered eggs ready to go
in the pan.

If the night was focaccia,
the morning a sourdough,

a sprinkle of grains
& seeds.

Sun white
as peeled garlic,

I crack the window
open.

Your freckles like little currants
baked in bread.

From under the cool sheets,
you smell of ripe

mangoes, of bits
of burnt rosemary

blowing away
with the draught.

How to build a paradox?

Does the secret lie
in a box of fenugreek,

in the dust
its dry leaves shed?

Or is it the shape
rain gives

to what
it does not fall on?

Things you keep
buried in your chest like ants:

blind, brown, carrying
a weight

heavier than their body.

How should I eat you?

Should I use a fork
and a spoon?

A knife maybe?

You don’t answer.
You just hmm.

Letters repeat,
sound echoes.

Your lips don’t move
at all.

Mine, on the other hand,
want to be all over

you.
Like spilled gravy.

Like ants clustering
a sticky spot.

. . . a fox

sniffing the rickety chicken cage
in your front yard

and — soon as you step out
to grab your towel

hung out to dry
overnight by the rusted wheelbarrow

in the back — leaping across the fence
to the next yard.