(4) Overwrite (Week Five)

Unraveled Sari

A year ago you were curry,
the sweet scent of frangipani--my sari.
And it's true; I made you into a poem,
put you into covetous lines
with another woman.
Though she was Indian
and married. You loved her
after dinner, hot tea and serene
demeanor. It all seems silly, my misuse
of muse, a smell and a tongueless
taste--those spices stained on your fleece
weren't true. Not the turmeric
at the edge of your lips. There was never
a wooden mehmas, no Night Queen.
Though it's true the other woman cooked
with cardamom and coriander, made curried
lamb over a bed of rice, she never wanted you.
And though it's true there was a we--framed
above the bookshelf, above the nightstand
and headboard, with spaces reserved for me
and my visits, inside drawers, the closet,
and your bed--I only knew one cup of wanting
you and a thousand tiny heartbreaks
when she spoke, when she said your name
low and more beautiful than any word
I'd heard. Yes, it's true; I was twenty-one
and envious of a woman, of an undiscovered
country, of a subcontinent curse--and this
prediction, this trade route tragedy.