Featured image: Rain and straw © A. Anupama 2017
The slim girl on ash pants becomes
water at the sight of my brother.
She pours herself on his bed, on the floor,
wets his pants and leaves him panting.
There is no day that dares the fire in her eyes.
Nor is there a night that nurses a greater ambition
than the way she moans. The slim girl on ash pants
says my brother’s cigars are sticks of promise.
She would light one, puff twice, and mumble words
about how her eyes have become a window through
which my brother escapes his fears. I do not know how
a girl becomes an enchantress by seeking to name flames
but I know that my brother’s room is a theatre of sorts
where ladies (especially this one) troop in to melt and become
one with his body, stroking his beards, caressing his hairy chest,
and listening to him speak like an automated stereo voice.
He knows how to drink ladies like water and wine,
this boy; and he drinks and drinks and drinks.