We passed into the city
like sterile vessels
aching under the 3 o’clock hour.
Our eyes staggered through
the epileptic cop car lights,
picking still freeze scenes
from the festival blur.
Loud rice cake voices, singing blandly,
motored by, while bass-lines
bucked the soft, dark fat
of the night’s underbelly.
The town was an echo
of beastly thundering.
Alley cat eyes prowled
in aimless acquisition.
Traffic jammed,
bumper-bumper rut
thumped on the gas.
Booming happy swarms
bounced off our headlights.
Gaping past the cranking cars,
I saw the quiet moon shudder in the sky.

Café Luna

You pool in excess,
liquid as the light
puddled on the fading
velvet of the chair.
Like a nervous
squirrel pawing
a nut,
you touch your queen,
and the room corners me
until I feel like a funny
puzzle in which the pieces
have been forced together.
My eyes,
dim, milkless
saucers,
counter yours.
Around us, voices
dribble and caffeine
lips are glued to
rattling coffee mugs,
but I hear only your fingers crawling.
A sudden arm
tips the table and
a black knight becomes
a casualty.

© Kavita Gandhi

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