uma gowrishankar

Brown As In Coffee

His caress bears the hours
toiled in the rice fields,
brown traces left on lips
furrowed with passion;

he carries the dusty road

to my bed, it lies folded 

in the khaki pants 

like crisp brown paper bag.
The skin where he touches 

honey-crusted with sugar, 

that he says will stir

into his creamy brown coffee.

Just when 

Just when the day lets down her hair

in waves of sunlight
just when I think the bird on the tree

will start singing

a cavity of sadness tunnels in

leaving a dent

whose insides are the red of ripe guava

that the squirrel abandoned.

A Summer Evening

A cat walked on tiled roof
                    as he told her 

he wanted to build a house 

around the old mango tree
          whose sap she savored. 

She looked at him

the nectar of the fruit 

like a shard of sun
                    in her smile

that he tasted with the salt

of her skin

a summer evening.

Uma Gowrishankar says, “I am from Chennai, South India. My poems have appeared in Qarrtsiluni, Whale Sound and Carcinogenic Poetry. I paint, practice yoga, take long walks and maintain a terrace garden that tends to run unruly. I blog at,, and”