By Kanupriya Rathore
He tells me he will touch me
but I must keep my hands where he can see them
he touches me everywhere
*
The retreating light trembles at my window
through the red of the Gulmohar tree
it’s afraid to leave me in the dark
*
I watch his wife talk about zionism on her Instagram live
I try to fix my hair like her
*
A banker sends me a bouquet of lilies
when I give them to my friend, she cries a little
*
The airport is missing the promise of newness
or danger
*
Jaipur is a lot of sleep, a lot of gold
clothes that won’t fit
and bharat jodo highway that has split Civil Lines
with its orange and green lights
*
He says I should meet his wife
I throw up before before entering the bar
*
The gulmohar is in full bloom. The banker is now engaged.
I massage candle wax on my knees
*
My mother teaches me how to fold an Odhani
I ask if she’s had a good life
*
He hums as we drive through the old city
I don’t know the song
the parkota has never looked so beautiful
*
I still keep the underwear he tore
in a little black box
It’s been a year since I first said I loved him
*
I call to say it again