Entrails

I clutch your prayer beads all night, Ajee,

and think of your journey

from Kalimpong to Kathmandu.


My entrails...

A make-shift bed at Maa's

a use-and-throw toothbrush,

remnants of the shortbread

in its tin-container.

My entrails...

old pieces of lingerie

in my dowry wardrobe,

a bar of unfinished soap

in his bathroom

and a puppy

I cannot leave behind.

My entrails...

a heart, flung

across the continents

for Columbus to flaunt,

a twinge,

as the puppy

whines, barks and battles the seam of my jeans

despite her milk-set.

My entrails...

a newly bought mascara,

forgotten on Yeshi's dresser

and the Tibetan tea she prepared for me,

drunk half-way.


I wonder what you'd think, Ajee,

of the woman I've become…

a woman with the roads

in her head

and chilblains on her feet,

living out of a duffle-bag.