how many days have you walked into my room,
rice on a tray, dal, quiet as a mouse
careful not to wake my sleeping son
while seeing my mess, some shame
an american queen, closet concubine, waiting for the work to be
done at a desert hotel with
a pool
today for lunch I demanded plain spaghetti
just boil it and bring it here! I heard myself yell at the phone
why did i speak like this?
disgusted with undercooked beans, abundance
of sunflower and rice bran oil, and salt
tonight for dinner I requested fancy dal not on your menu
one prepared special for entitled tourists like me
dal makhani, it’s possible? I ask
sab kuch milega, you say
when you brought it to me, my robe
closed tight around my chest, lights low, I opened my door, my world,
you entered, placed the tray on the table, silent
you rose, met my gaze, pressed your palms in
anjali mudra, opening your heart
my breath left me
thank you, thank you, I said
who am I to be so proud?
I meant it
