And on days like this

nothing else will do.

Nothing but that whisper

of breath against the ear.

Breath that’s warm

like the sigh of palmyra trees

in Tirunelveli plantations.

Breath

that’s crisp

like linen, rice-starched,

dhoop-soaked,

in a family cupboard.

Breath

to be trusted,

with a thread maybe

of something

your foremothers never knew,

or pretended not to –

the spice-mist

of hookah on winter nights

in Isfahan, or raw splatter

of Himalayan rain, or wine

baroque with the sun

of al-Andalus.

Breath

of outsider,

ancestor,

friend,

who leaves nothing more than this

signature of air

against skin,

reminding you

that there’s nothing respectable

about family linen

when cupboard doors close,