[that day you had your birth-chart drawn up by p—]
the venusian mound of your palmate palm’s
meat, meatier than mine or
do you not care you are one whole saturn
return ahead, falling body onto sheet from street
or that indian-hot means jai-kisan heights and
you will not speak (to me) for two days.
it’s hardly an april forecast and you still hold back,
have not invited me inside.
inside that library of the broken
you keep record of every fallen star(fish)
you skipped on 74th street where a golden record
plays in traffic (before the store).
(shamshad begum to lata mangeshkar: both standing up):
what joy is there in drinking tears,
what you keep inside will stifle you-
spread as a map,
in the nastaliq
of his curling black
hair, a qawwali
across his punjabi-
what is there to fear—
midnight samosas with him and the green
chutney burns deep after i lick his lips.
[yesterday during the day]
playback singers play back on the streets in queens, back
to front in the street named kalpana-chawla-
way after the first astronaut of indian
descent in space, a fallen (punjabi) star. a suitcase
sized hole in the side, allowed the hot space gasses in. you almost
held your jupiter-recessed palm
to mine when you spoke. what of the joy of now—
the problem is i can’t wait for your venus-promise
to chase me shooting-star straight across asia.
one day, remembering this, we will smile and see—
haan ji, we will see.
he says, mughal-e-azam was the first film
(he says) hand-painted into technicolor—
the highest grossing until sholay in 1975,
the homo-erotic classic.
(i say the flames keep their own colors.)
across from famous pizza, in the palika bazaar
of jackson heights,
you ask me if i consider myself white.
i imagine dipping a brush into the fallen
stars in my own hands to paint yours in technicolor.