Vandana Khanna
The winter before I was sixteen, when I was finding
the strength of my bones, the tricks of my hips
like knots in wood, my brother bought a prostitute
a drink in the red-light district of Frankfurt.
Left alone in the hotel room, my father had gone
out after him, pockets jangling with marks, I imagined
dark corners, stale smoke and limes, the dull moan
of wheat beer brewing in the back room, wondered
if in fact there were red lights strung along street
corners, casting everythign in scarlet -- hands, necks, eyes.
I watched dusk stettling over the street -- what did he buy her?
Things I couldn't name or taste. From the window,
the city looked distant and available, its lights glistened
an outline of itse on my skin.
