Colaba Weather
Trapped all day in the apartment’s only air-conditioned room.

I say: we fight like we’re married, but I mean

make up like we’re married. We meet your friends

at the seafood restaurant and all of them are married. 
We stack our plates with claws. They gleam like children’s

toys. We toast stemless glasses of dry Riesling, lift them to our faces.

Bombay duck is actually a fish, somebody explains. Its eye

recedes like a planet. You knife skin from flesh. 
Outside, rain drops its glassine sheet over the city

the worst season to come in years. Months later

I’ll see the footage of Marine Drive on TV.

The city sinks another inch with each high tide.