Young Writers Society

Thank you, Niagini
Sallow
I spoke with her on the bank
of an escarpment our boat beached.
Her belly was rounded and stuck,
sudden and pink from under her shirt,
some great creature wallowing against her
chest. Her words were rounded sighs,
feet sinking into the muck and worms,
and I barely listened, the smooth globe
of skin reddening in the glare. And I said,
you are mistaken.

Pilgrimage
I went for the elephants, their rough hides swaying
with weighted tourists. Instead, I saw raised-trunk
reliefs carved into wood, breathed incense of burnt mahogany
curling about tent silks. A man offered sweetmeats and I wanted
to say "I belong" here, or elsewhere,
but nutmeg and rice still pressed to the edge of my tongue
and I left knowing no Hindi.

Parting

The lower is rougher, I wonder -
crush of lips, barbed tongues

of desperation, curves of lipstick,
stuttered, fading

light of you in bed at night,
menage a trois.