I sleep in the arms of Brahma,
plastic red sunglasses and white
American teeth that fail to bring
good luck,
my rinsed long hair
drying uncombed on the air.
I imagine myself perfumed
with marine minerals; a garland
like a groom, but your eyes close,
your pedi-cab disappears into India.
My night flight passes over Mumbai,
the downtown filled with glorious light
as though the entire city sleeps
with the lights on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem