hai, Ghulam Ali sings, I remember
shedding tears—as Auntie Neelam tests

the wax, dips a wooden stick
into viscous amber liquid she will layer

thick on each arm, those slender
cylinders of skin and bone once heavy

with flesh. Even now, you want
more than you can bear: some space

to have as your own: not this
chair, taken over by some other body

bent backwards, not your apartment,
filled with papers, books thumbed through

on nights the stars remain unseen
through clouded sky. Once, your mother

knelt between your legs, trimmed
the hair there grown too quickly, warned