We sat on crispy sand,
our spines in afternoon thaw,
looking out on old school bells
gathering echoes on the Thar.
We spoke about camel-
stomached love, the eucalyptus
men and women who’d
promised to grow sky-
old with us.

The desert is a virgin—
its skin only as old
as the last thought.
New hymen patterns
on every breath.
Love bites on dunes,
like goose bumps
on our dawn-damp skin.

Our furry whispers
were windows of delight.
My thinness was a belief
that transformed you
into a butterfly.
You grew wings
and looked for peace
whose address is
always next door.
You took a roll call
of all tall smiles
that bended
their necks to enter
through your garden arch.
I wanted a tree
to scratch my back.
There were none.
Only giant cacti thorns.

The eyes of women
dropping from your mouth
left me in sweat.
I searched for shade.
Where are the shadows
of desert lovers?

I looked upwards,
mumbled scanty whispers.
The sky is the waiter
who takes your order and smiles.
You are restless.
Nothing arrives.

Memory is a wall
guarding our houses.
A black goat enters,
chews air and leaves.
Gun-bags of sandy silence
are embankment.

A desert is
all neighborhood.
We roam, we loiter,
we never enter.
Its curfew-hour
patience unnerves us

until the sun clears its throat
to arrive
and you slither
into a desert corpse
to wait for
a war-burnt lover.