The Best Thing
As a baby in pink or blue, or red-faced
when dress tangled with curls or pudgy limbs;
Gurgling, shitting, smiling, spitting, suckling,
they called my wily charm sheer innocence.
As a precocious nymph at Iyengar bakery,
bread, butter, I pirouetted, cake too, I pointed;
The young men glanced, the old men drooled,
they locked me in dirty dungeons, dreams of desire.
As a pioneer late or a wordy poet, at Loharu Junction,
at desert’s edge, with the photogenic, the heat,
A lorry driver, a loud woman enter exit a shady shed,
they walked past me, a mirage biting dust, unseen.
As a lover, a partner in strange beds, homes
with half-lies, faked orgasms, true charades,
The barter for old times’ sake, to be safe, secure, I gave,
they looked at me with pleasure, that as love, I took.
As an old hag with tattered hopes, shattered defense,
easy to be cynical, bitter, wise, stoic, bloody fool,
The truth is easier – while I find, lose, misplace,
they keep their best thing in their world, not me.
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