you stand under the mistletoe
and i under vines of bougainvillea
your breath of snow against my rain soaked palms
mulled wine spilling where my tea leaves drown
bells echo in your chapels
mine rings with rickshaw pullers
your streets polished like clear glass
mine cracked open with tire marks
gardens of ivy whisper through your fences
cicadas hum inside my chest
rose hedges heavy over your gates
mine dusted with mango skins and marigold
your snowdrops lie pressed flat in books
my jasmine goes brown before morning
your apples keep all winter in the cellar
my lychees spoil inside a week
you taste of buttered bread
i of chilies crushed on stone
my tamarind arrives at your table in sugar
my dried fish does not arrive at all
yet the same moon
drifts between us
silver trembling
whole in your window
and in my two wet hands
breaking
and breaking
and still
mine.
