And on days like this nothing else will do.
Nothing but that whisper of breath against the ear.
Breath that’s warm
like the sigh of palmyra trees in Tirunelveli plantations.
Breath
that’s crisp
like linen, rice-starched, dhoop-soaked,
in a family cupboard.
Breath
to be trusted,
with a thread maybe
of something
your foremothers never knew, or pretended not to—
the spice-mist
of hookah on winter nights
in Isfahan, or raw splatter of Himalayan rain,
or wine baroque with the sun
of al-Andalus.
Breath
of outsider, ancestor, friend,
who leaves nothing more than this signature of air
against skin,
reminding you
that there’s nothing respectable about family linen
when cupboard doors close,
reminding you
that this uncensored wilderness of greed is simply -
or not so simply -
body.