by Shobita Mampilly
Measures of salt seep from orgasmic arch
Sufi foot taps echo in New Delhi slum
Nothing matters, he said; an extravagant claim
That slow Sunday. A quick kiss later
I understood what mattered least was Love
The Safdarjung bungalow cradled Krishna
Prints and used pillows. His new lover was pregnant
From Tunis. They had sex in Tibet
Months ago. I wanted to tell you before, he wrote
But that would have been too soon, too late
If nothing mattered, then this would pass
No dogma to distrust, no damsel in distress
She’s French. I’m not. He’s like me.
He wanted me to say, I’ll be here, but I won’t
Shobita Mampilly teaches Anatomy and Physiology to high school seniors in the Bronx. Floating continents often, poetry is her chosen vehicle to detoxify. She performed in Anita Nair’s A Twist of Lime, staged at Jagriti Theater in Bangalore. Armed with graduate degrees from Columbia and New School universities, Shobita relies on yoga to navigate her cosmos. She has published Malayalam poetry translations, and her own work has appeared in journals like Rattapallax and Lips Poetry Magazine.