A Ghazal of Eyes

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At my spine is a harbour for a fear of eyes:
the eyes that want to know me and your eyes.

Yours want me wanting and known. I think
of floods daily. They rarely close, your eyes.

You asked if I was scared of being known,
the dip of eyelashes on all-seeing eyes.

I hid a small god in your goldfish bowl to
make it true when I said yes, those eyes.

Somewhere I am known and in love with you.
It could be true. Can you imagine Mum’s eyes?

Warm, as she’d look at us over her chai and smile.
Later you’ll kiss me and tell me not to close my eyes.

Perhaps I won’t. Here, there is no puja that can
pray away my fear, or with incense, hide all eyes.

I want to reassure you, despite the vertigo
from the opening and closing of so many eyes.

Look at me looking at you — for if I had
your faith, I would wear a shroud of eyes.

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