Scheherazade Spread Thin

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I met an old friend today.
Surrounded by
the sound of idle banter
I confined the last year
with you
In just half of an hour
and then
for the next three halves
you were
gone
in blissful gossip –
in troubles of other people.

But I come home to you now,
my senses shackled
inside this mediocre marriage,
cheap apartment,
strange city.
You forget
that I can reach beyond
this four-walled prison
of wifely duties; feeding both hungers
on your orders.

Your hands feel like serpents,
your body is lead –
cushioned by your mother’s parathas.
You finish and turn over.
Disgusted, I
shrink quietly into my skin.

There is light filtering through the blinds,
clothes strewn across the floor –
always in a hurry, always aggressive.

Volumes of modern poetry tossed off the shelf –
a different kind of outburst,

because the korma gave you heartburn today,
and a hardworking man
deserves
a good meal.

I smell the potpourri by my bed,
cinnamon, apples, pine,
Christmas in a bamboo bowl,

you snore.

I have the urge to spit on your face.

A year ago, darling,
I could have lost myself
in the sound of your snores,
in the curve of your body,
in that small space
between your elbow and shoulder,
where my head used to fit perfectly,

perfectly,

before you decided to tie one of my legs
to your bed
and the other to your stove

and left me

spread-eagled.