Bombay 1947 or Dream Poem

(A response to Neutral Milk Hotel's song 'Communist Daughter.')

Sometimes in my dreams

I see her growing out of seaweed

and mossy rocks

on that port in Bombay

and I grip the bulwark of the ship

and wave to her like the tricolour

on the flagpole of the upper deck

as ambassadors twist like rubber

and burnt flesh turns so soft

that my fingers sink through bodies

like knife through butter.

Sometimes in my dreams

I feed baba’s memory and pieces of my

tongue, to catfishes that bump

against the hull of the ship. And an emaciated boy

looks at me and asks:

am I dreaming

or does the moon look like a half-eaten biscuit?

He waits for an answer and I

open my mouth and show him

the cavern in which my shredded tongue

flaps like an obscene gesture.

Sometimes in my dreams

I pack the memory of my fingers

on her spine and the way our tongues moved

in each other’s mouths and the colour of her hair

into my briefcase when Baba says:

pack only the things you need.

And I dream that I sing her

a sweet serenade

full of guitars and bagpipes and nice voices

as the ship moves away

and Baba looks for Ma among the stars.

Sometimes in my dreams

she and I

sit on that port with our feet in water

and eyes towards the future and it looks

like ice lollies and evening walks and

phantom comics. And her feet grow roots

and her body turns into a branch and her

words sprout leaves and I plant the

seeds of our rendezvous

on the hard ground of the ship

and water those bygone days

with my sleep.