Kurup said I no longer have my fangs,
that my fins cease to lift and thrust,
my tailwinds and headwinds are switched.
I am Arethea Franklin’s rose,
with Frank O’Hara’s heart.
Neruda meant my love,
in, if he forgets me.
See my notorious RBG pin, on
my starch ironed handloom saree.
I wake 48 mins before sun rise,
in my dream.
The smell of jasmine is still me,
and in me.
I keep house and overwater
my house plants.
Tea at 5, coffee till 10.
Always, I am my father’s daughter, first.
Still short of an orange-robe, while
strumming my sitar.
A wizened silk-cotton tree,
on a verdant valley.
Waiting and waiting,
and waiting.
See, Kurup –
I don’t have to start all over again, for
I was never gone.
