We were not meant to chew like cows,
Like the girls who consider
Nor swallow well and whole,
Like some others.
We, with a mouth too big and open and baboon-like,
Spit and vomit and retch too loud
In fetching loud refusals
Women of disguise
Women of disgust
Women of no grace
Women, roaring.

Madness lives not next door
In that girl who can’t fold her clothes
Or legs.
Madness is us, in the smaller considerations.
In hair let loose and swaying
To the tropical tremors of your heart
To the camphor eyes of intention
That burn like coals
In the need to mock the world whole
For its pretenses
In meandering, lightless roads
Lined by fire-red gulmohar.