BLACK GRAPES

 

Deepti’s braids dripped

full fat ink,

coiled thick and hung

like grapes.

 

At night, her fruitfall

bounced in the mirror,

leaked from pale breasts

and down the wave

of her spine

knotted and gnarled

from sitting too straight

in a wild wonky world.

 

In her mind, ten fingers

glide to ride the swell

of each curl pooled

at the waist.

 

There is another life

that runs loose

through long hair,

but how to catch it

when you can’t even

pick up the brush.

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*First published in The cannon's Mouth, 2021

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