Foreigner

by Jyotsna Das

(1)

I have never been more curious than when I first took off your clothes.

I turned the light that I might see if the hair between your marble thighs

is also western chrome.

Your arms were never longer than when you held my tiny body.

Wide Asian hips. Small Asian breasts, growing firm under the roughness of your giant palms.

I have never been so brown than against the milky white of your flesh,

or more native than in your gaze, when it goes searching out for mystery

in my oriental face.

(2)

You seemed surprised when you came home last night

that I had cooked for you.

No man had ever such a look of gratitude

for such an obvious thing.

I saw you by the kitchen door

and I swept the screaming lids

from the cooking pots on the stoves.

What smell arrested you I cannot tell,

but I saw you breathe in the steam,

before you pressed me to the wall,

and moved your alien mouth along

the spices on my neck.

(3)

In your eyes,

I am a wild exotic fruit,

ripe and bursting

with abundance,

full of bright flesh,

and the warmth

of tropic summers.

One you travelled

the world to pick—

a lingering taste

of spice and earth

and raspy smells,

that you will savour

when you are home

in another continent.