Afternoon Masala: Poems

Water and Wine

Water and Wine Truth is, I was never good with words like torrid or tawdry—they smarted in my mouth like a sharp masala. I was tired of being plain, wanted to taste love’s uneven flavor against my dulled-edged tongue. As curves proved themselves on the geometry of my bones, I’d try out my red-lined sulk in front of mirrors, picture the ninth-grade girls gliding through St. Mary’s schoolyard with the venom of a forties starlet. Their rituals of romance were in a language I couldn’t figure out. No matter that water could turn into wine, I wanted my own transformation: to paint my lips Lana Turner red, brush the sheen of transcendence bright across my cheeks—to be the one buzzing with revelation. • • •  • • • ...