THE FIRE

I see it in your eyes—
The fire that has no form,
That knows not its own body, or the seed
From which it sprang;
The fire that burns out of sight
Whose flickering edges reach
The irises of your eyes.

When it is born, life is child's play. Entirely
Naked, unashamed to ask, it begins by taking.
Tender in moist earth, the stems wet, the leaves
Lit in the glow of older trees. Utterly safe.

Until its tinder catches a dry spark. Smoke
Confuses its time-sense, its small urn surprised
By its own searing. From a mere petal on a wick
To a well-fed blaze, patiently it grows
Learning how to stay hidden and when to climb high.

In the colours of abandon, it is an acrobat,
Delighting. Spreading is all it does, extravagant
In its blindness. When it grows secretive,
The wings turn inward to cover its tense flame.

Sometimes it has difficulty speaking. The eyes
Run, palms sweat, a nerve swells in the temple.
Sometimes a racing pulse, airy head, acid.

In the belly, a chill in the groin.
The chest is tight as a fist, and in the heart, a pull.

I see it--
The fire that burns out of sight
Whose flickering edges reach
The irises of your eyes.
 

GROUP PORTRAIT

Four heads on a two-wheeler
is a tight-rope dance
promising edge-of-seat
suspense to the riders. For many

This is an everyday machine of convenience.
No performer of tricks, or expert dodger,
this forced daredevilry
is for me a weekend act.

A getaway vehicle
for a clutch of kindred souls
poised in flight
from the city's snares.

Emerging from our burrow
we bump along an open strip of road
shaking off the skyline
in hot pursuit after us.

Roll into the centre of a charmed world—
vestiges of villages, a church
bathed in yellow light,
the undulating green waves stroking

Our sore eyes. We blink, unbelieving,
everytime we touch this holy relic.
This is the face
of the city in its infancy.

As if this last surviving child had fallen
out of history's monstrous family tree
into a trap door
and stumbled upon the secret of everlasting youth:

Here it plays, curls gleaming in beams
of sunshine, the taste of its toe
still lingering
in the mouth. Enchanted, we move

Slowly, past the creek, skirting
the edge of the marsh
through a corridor
of palm, tamarind and casuarina, touching down

On our own private public sanctuary.
The suburban skyline's given up
the chase. In front,
the seashore opens, where the children run

Delivering their limbs to the expanse—
from the soles of their bare feet
upto the tips
of their hair tossed by the breeze.

Not so hard here, in a chosen spot,
to screen out insistent noises
packaged by bands
of picnickers, by turning deaf to everything

Except the crash of the surf.
Lying supine, filling our eyes
with the sky's embrace
mute to questions, doubts, that break

Surface to tiptoe abroad to take the air.
In this moment of respite we sit close
relearning the ease
with which we, as lovers, sat huddled.

I take the now-calloused hands
of a slaving housewife to my lips
in order to breathe
new life into them. From those fingertips

That stroke my scalp the way I like it,
her love flows that it may arrest
the receding hairline
the multiplying streaks of grey.

It is the children's squeals of delight, their abandon
that blesses our hurts, proves
our innocence.
They set us free to float above the earth

Interlocked in sheer weightlessness.
They are specks on the seashore
belonging to the future.
We only ask for grace, that we may

Release our children with love, allowing pain
to preserve the distance
which welds our world together.
We call out to them and they run

Into our arms. We rise as a family
for the city dark to reclaim us.
Replenished, we ride home
escorted by invisible hands.