Poetry – Spring 2014
In real life, she wasn’t blue like in the comics,
she was dark as soot,
She appears when we’re not looking
her parents only wanted a boy to do all the fighting
Is he riding shotgun in an auto-rickshaw, his scarred ears
flapping in the diesel dust?
On summer trips overseas when I was 3, 6, 9, 12,
My aunties used to whisper, What are you feeding her?
So you remember Superman,
not Shaktimaan, veal not enthu
cutlets in Ramarajan pants
turning up half hour early
to help the host host his party?