Evening In Mumbai

I trust the ocean
so I dipped my hand inside,
the wound I had seethed
and slithered with the
crystalline intrusion.

My lungs begged for something
different, something new and
rich like marriage or a friend.

I often found my heart begging
for rocks.

I place myself elsewhere: now my hands
are healthy and I'm painted with
red mendhi.

The waves lap at my knees, thinning
my sari, making it transclucent.
I begin slowly to dip myself deeper
into the water, letting the blood of my body
cloud my face and fill my world.