First came morning London fog, thickening
curtains beyond the door that your husband

just left from. Then a curious rapping
at your kitchen door. In all of England:

you, from Mumbai, I, an exchange student,
became neighbors. You giggled (thirteen-years

older than me, ex-doctor, now pregnant
housewife) then let me in. Rejection, fear,

isolation — the gloom of the soul — stirs
queer sides in us all. “You’ll call me Aunty,”

you said, rising from your knees, your boredom
gone, your grin gone wet like fog, three fingers

running across your cheek, nose, the bindi
moon on your forehead, all splattered with cum.