Previously published in The Malahat Review.
OVER HAND OVER BY MANAHIL BANDUKWALA I surrender an unpeeled clementine bursting with seeds I surrender an afternoon in the lengthening shadows of summer pines I surrender my thighs burning against the uphill slope of Tenth Line West It is August and touch is far. I meet my friend in the park and in the grass with our bikes between us, we read aloud the words of Noor Naga to still air I do not want to love you in an imaginary place We talk about surrender * sur (over) + rendre (hand over) I over hand over * I loved him the way I wanted to love the earth. It was April and the frost was just starting to thaw. My nose pressed into fresh dug garden soil. Small buds appeared on the rosebush. Last year’s thorns pricked my cheeks. He did not lick the blood clean from my face. I wanted to love him while loving my sisters and mother and laundered sheets and pots of snake plants. Ants looped bangles around my broken wrists. Scar extending from my left pinky to protruding bone * brutal (cruel) + ity (state of being) our cruel way of carrying on *
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