If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek you could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thighat this smooth pastureneighbour to your hairor the creasethat cuts your back. This ankle.You will be known among strangersas the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at youbefore marriagenever touch you- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.I buried my handsin saffron, disguised themover smoking tar,helped the honey gatherers . . .
When we swam onceI touched you in waterand our bodies remained free,you could hold me and be blind of smell.You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter. And you searched your arms for the missing perfume
what good is itto be the lime burner's daughter left with no traceas if not spoken to in the act of love as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said I am the cinnamon peeler's wife. Smell me.
Listen to the poet read it out loud here