In the women’s com­part­ment
of a Bom­bay local
we seek
no per­son­al epipha­nies.
Like met­al licked by relent­less acety­lene
we are weld­ed –
dreams, dis­as­ters,
germs, des­tinies,
flesh and organ­za,
odours and ovaries.
A thou­sand-limbed
mil­lion-tongued, mul­ti-spoused
Kali on wheels.

When I descend
I could choose
to dice car­rots
or a lover.
I post­pone the latter.

[print-me]