And on days like this
nothing else will do.

Nothing but that whisper
of breath against the ear.

Breath that's warm
like the sigh of palmyra trees
in Tirunelveli plantations.

Breath
that's crisp
like linen, rice-starched,
dhoop-soaked,
in a family cupboard.

Breath
to be trusted,

with a thread maybe
of something
your foremothers never knew,
or pretended not to -
the spice-mist
of hookah on winter nights
in Isfahan, or raw splatter
of Himalayan rain, or wine
baroque with the sun
of al-Andalus.

Breath
of outsider,
ancestor,
friend,

who leaves nothing more than this
signature of air
against skin,
reminding you
that there's nothing respectable
about family linen
when cupboard doors close,

reminding you
that this
this uncensored wilderness
of greed
is simply -
or not so simply -

body.