T s e r i n g W a n g m o D h o m p a
<<Two Poems>>Love Letter 6
Love. Lashes of sugar on tongue.
Not that this sweetness becomes
an extension of something recognizable.
I want to break all ties with time.
What I recognize as familiar is not time.
When I say I do not like this particular red
flower it has nothing to do with the flower
itself. But with the people who belong to it.
I want the moment of your first entrance
to be a meeting ground for evidence.
Your ample arms. A half-bloom of lotus
in your left hand. A pen or maybe a sword
in your right. Seen again, how contours
distress sight. Seen through angular rain,
soft you make yourself seem.
Wet. Unable to keep dry.
Love, people emerge from the street's insides in
a retreating army's silence. The metal caterpillar
throws them into unacknowledged intimacy.
They do not look at each other. They do not hold
hands. Deeper into the dark,
slip into Babel choir. Scissor arms.
In the city, I am exempted from being like you.
No alms for strangers. No mid-day tea in the sun.
Deities remain at the altar. I am self-sufficient.
Signs direct me at every corner.
Tsering Wangmo Dhompa graduated with an MFA
in Creative Writing from San Francisco State.
Her work has appeared in the Mid-American Review,
Fourteen Hills, Bitter Oleander, Visions International and
Atlanta Review etc. She plans to return to Nepal in March
or as soon as she gets all her belongings to fit in two suitcases.