Read by Carolyn Guinzio
On garam masala afternoons I catch your rhythm in the kitchen and we burn into something tender. An eddy of joy. A shiver.
Blur of hips, we swing the circles of a reckless world.
Taut again. Loose, loose.
At night, we tumble into something better that crinkles like wire-strung happiness. Rain sliding on a corrugated roof.
Forever. Temporary. We stay either way.