i am not trying to be a man how
jules was not
trying
to be a man
either. us lit blue
on the hotel
bed by a dim bulb.
trailing spit
down my ribbed
white tank, masc
4masc, whispered jules
& sucked. jules
clocked
me. their seeing
was soap. it rubbed
& foamed
my mind’s hands.
scrubbed them
till the knuckle-
side got brittle
dry. i flexed
felt red
in each crease—out
the corner window
stop lights bathed
rustling trees. my body
had reached
its limit
& that limit
was a new body,
sort of. jules’ touch
was lotion,
noticing, you
like that.
red light
nearly dawn again when we touch down in haridwar. red lights in the runway’s sleeve of fog. three airports of us stalled at every gate. gloves, swabs. inspection to ensure the veracity of your ashes. we point to the gold seal on the black box of your ashes. agents to furnish with a certificate certifying your ashes. in arrivals the taxi meter’s red matchsticks. mamaji, who has come to collect us, nods. remarks your illness & our mother’s corresponding suffering was karmic. cause & effect drift apart like cars separated by a red light. i remember your fingers like slim green beans & delicate oval nail beds. a gurney where mama rubs your feet. your grippy socks the color of a large blue sky. the effects raced ahead of us. of you.
