make space for you and me,
make space for brown and
all its shades, for buff and
beige and burgundy, shake
off the dust from your minds,
and take in copper, chocolate,
rust, but do not let just these
define, who you could be and I,
let black in and let whiter skin
also meet the eye, let fair and
dark and all in-between be also
seen - what's the big fuss? - as us.
If the word gets out, they will all talk,
they will all ask you why you're blue,
and expect to know what troubles you.
They will point fingers at your unkempt hair,
they will once look at the years gone by
and scoff at your bangles and keep an eye
on your trembling hands.
People are cruel, they will mock every thing you do
and casually they'll bring me into what they say -
don't let what they say of me at all affect you,
or they will find a trace of all we've hidden
so far, written on your face.
Whatever happens, do not ask them things
and see - never ask of me.
alone, I take several with me.
I have got Deepti's fridge
and Anusha's chairs, and
Akshara's mattresses, and
if any one looked in what
I have cooked the rice and
coffee they have been served,
it's Deepti's micro, Anusha's
mugs and Akshara's spoons -
queer families, queer weather,
we'll see many, many moons