In childhood I woke earlier 
than children normally do. 
To keep me busy mother told me 
to pick arabian jasmines 
from the garden. Small plants lined 
swollen with fragrance.
Now I think their fragrances are
arms they open for the world. 
How the bees understood the signs. 
Joyously they closed in 
for intimacies to happen.
What I did, pick a few and smell. It was
another kind of feeling, privileging me.
Like a quiet wonder inside an expectant
mother. Would you believe every time
I see gajras braided with pigtails. I stand
inside a wormhole. My body squeezed.
My tiny nose overwhelmed by the
opportunity to touch god’s breath
with a heart unburned by looming wounds