in the middle of the table,
four barely half-eaten
metal pots of Indian food—

we barely picked at them
it’s hazy outside from
the Dovestone moor fires—

there is burning here too
a warmth rises in gestures;
maybe it’s the pav bhaji

layers of softness seem
to sweep over our table;
maybe it’s the bundo chaat

buried sweetness finds its way
through the dense atmosphere;
maybe it’s the okra fries

fiery zings of comfort spread
as we exchange small plates;
maybe it’s the bean kachumber

there is much more here
than we can consume in
this one sitting, “I think we

     want more time”;
I tell the waiter who came
over too eagerly, ready

to clean up; perhaps we are
too nervous to take the last
bites, what if we finish these

dishes? Would we be greedy,
or could we order more of
the same again, would it

not be even better, now we
had a taste of them, we know
there is more than enough;

I never needed the food,
really, but I wanted to share
a table, sit across from you

to pass along dishes so that
I could look without being
too intenselyobservant;

you push your tongue down
right in your bottom lip, when
you pretend to be lightly offended

how your tamarind-brown eyes
sparkle behind your glasses, just
before you make a silly joke

or how your voice slightly shifts
registers, more Northern, when
you become at ease and tease me;

as you get up for the bathroom,
I admire your purposeful, confident
gait towards unknown space,

I drift off; the hazy heat engulfs
me, I sink in the chair and wonder
what to say when you get back—

"before moving into certainties
I think we should remain here,
in half-eaten Indian dishes

you know,



the waiter’s not back yet,



and I’m not quite ready



to be taken off the table