The boy I loved was so dark, so dense, so
soft in the air conditioning, so beautiful
with his thick chest and spindle legs and
shoulders broadening unconsciously, a
strong thing standing for the first time. He
was from Kerala, Trivandrapuram, and he
knew Hindi and Malayalam. I never heard
him speak it, just heard his voice shift
open into a gift on the phone with his
mother, “yah,” and “alright” shifting
exasperated, so that he could spend the
time tucked around me, an arm, a chest
awakened with new stubble,
a back like the sky
draping velvet curtains
drowning in ink
as I kissed where light reflected
He said when he lived in Atlanta, in
Georgia, his mother hadn’t needed her
Malayalam, Hindi, Marathi, Kannada any
more, and I was jealous that she had so
many faces, tucking mine where his
draped skull met neck muscle. He said
there were rooms with no furniture, heat,
and his teeth shocked in his shifting face
and his jaw was lined with black hair that
didn’t know how to rest. He said “racial
profiling.” Phrases too heavy for the roof of
my mouth. And he sat up, remembering his
chest, with its stubble and soft edges,
pressed against the hood of the cop car.
The school library in daylight marking
him dirty and opposite. I cried sorry with
my fingers stroking, shifting flannel
against velvet. I was new leaves
crunching, pushing sand
trusting wind and sun to move me
palm trees in parking lots
a cactus blooming vermilion
I had only one tongue with which to say.
Space tucked into his torso, stones
skipping on a waveless water. All rain in
the desert is lost.
* * *
Sagaree Jain is a graduating senior at UC Berkeley studying history with a concentration in South Asia and a minor in English.
