And the Word for Moonlight Is My Name

                                                          Chandini.

This mouth is a wound from where I’m learning

                how to love. My love language, I’ve told strange men, is words

                            of   affirmation. In naked brag of my American tongue—

how does it taste to love with this Indian body? I knew love being breastfed

through a nightstorm where the blued song of electricity ended.

My reparation tools for the cosmos are as precise

                as they are approximate. I parse each numerical line

                            about starshine that arrives in tallies. Chandini, I’ve been

                                 the type of Western methods coward who doesn’t listen

to my stomach’s knowledge. I’ve taken feverous temperatures

with my hands, then gently slapped the trust

of   the thermometer on my knee and into a baby’s mouth

                again. I don’t trust the way

                            my nails are embedded with spiraled rinds of sweet oranges

                                     always seeking the reach of knives.

Tell me the way

the Bengal smells, a sweet perfume

that does not exist in a glass on my bedside table.

Tell me again the way we could have known

                how half-gods carrying pipes with cloven hooves

                            sang in key to the slunk ring of rickshaws—

                                    the exhaust settled in laundry lines like blackbirds.

How to say my own name with the certainty of a dove

that trusts the buoying ark of   humanity. My bird ring

that waits and slides on the tattoo of a birdcage on my fingers.

                Tell me again the way, Chandini.

                            How divinity was without border control

                                    and conversing with the sky was common as rain.

Ma used to preserve each of   her calling cards in a glass

vase as if they could blossom, as if  they were the umbilical

rope tethering cosmonauts to the space station.

                 I was given electric lines of your uncut hair,

                             like an old telephone line operator—

                                     where can I connect it to but just myself?

Hello.

                                                              Chandini.

I’ve held your hair with the softness of space people

washing each other bare in zero gravity.

Long-distance, on the other side, I’ll be there,

                a voyager grounded after cosmic exile.

                                  My breath on the line

                                          just praying against echos.

Hello.

                                                                    Chandini.

                                   Salam.

                                                                                               Hello,

                                                                                               again.