Postcards to the Other Brown Girl in My Weightlifting Class

Let's say the word

saffron

out loud, say

sari

—do you see me

as a slut, or a good girl?

I do not want to ask,

where are

you

from—

your friend beside you

is tan, freckled, pearls

at her ears, a silver

cross at her throat.

*

Does your mother show

you pictures of eligible

bachelors from Jaipur,

Mumbai, Canada? Does

your kitchen house unused

monuments of your mother's

immigrant heart: packets

of mixed spices, canisters

of rice, discarded coconuts?

*

If I must be the hand

pressed against the window,

let there be saltwater waiting

below, docked ships for

sidewalks. Let wounds be

wounds, let the water we

sip from nozzled bottles be

gods and goddesses crashing through

each other: Vishnu, Shiva, Allah.

*

I want to be each mirror lining

the walls, to find you beside me,

meeting my eyes—I do not want

to give myself—I want to be stem,

stamen, petal, not blossom, not bloom—