​                                     After you left
​for the land where no one dances
​in the rain, I discovered worlds
​too big for my palms.

I hid our moments of salt and stone

(and hands)

in thickets of blue bamboo. Still
​they scamper onto skin, tumble
​through arms, settle in hair.
​Their scent lingers, brick dust
​on rock. Some mildew.
​I harvest the rest.

​Somewhere, a language has no word
​for remember. Yesterday is always
​happening, never more
​than today, or last year.

​Do you ever retie the pulsera, smile
​at the Zapatista postcard? Fondle
​initials scratched on coffee cup?
​Do you still sing the story of shoelace?

​I have sock drawers stuffed full
​of memories I am afraid of
​forgetting at the doctor’s
​or the supermarket.

​Did I mention rust
​is my favourite colour?

​I kept your t-shirt.

​If you wanted to come back, would you
​find your way? The birds ate the crumbs.

This poem was first published in the March 2012 issue of Muse India


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