at the new indian restaurant downtown, they fire
up the tandoor. half tablespoon pepper, one teaspoon salt.
that’s it? you make a joke about shitting your pants. i laugh,
say sorry, pay for our meal. can we stop by the grocery store

so i can buy enough chillies to burn your cold heart? not spicy
enough. my bad, i thought this biryani would be it. you beg me
like i begged the pasty police officer yesterday to not write
me a ticket. but you are not on your knees, not yet anyway.

on our third date, you say all indian food looks the same. we sit
in class, my brown skin hidden in a white sea. i’m the diversity
hire by default. the school trustee’s son—students union president,
charming, funny—asks if people in my country still shit in the open.

at least he’s curious. weren’t you when you tweeted
why do indians smell like curry?
i know you wouldn’t say something like that
now. i don’t break
a sweat but take three showers, scrub my skin
until it starts to peel off, empty an entire perfume bottle to hide
the parts of me you find dirty. don’t order the lamb curry

extra spicy. you do it anyway, taunt me for my lack of fire. we inherit
things from our forefathers. mine were burned alive, what’s a little
friendly fire between us? it’s not like i’m here to scam you. or steal
anything. okay, maybe your heart.

four days later, you break up with me.
fifth day, they find drugs in my apartment.
day six, i’m going back to where i came from.

you see me off at the airport. sorry things had to end
this way, you almost say. i pass you a new biryani recipe,
three times spicier. life. diarrhea. death, i write on the back.
i don’t care what you think. that’s pretty funny.
so what if i’m the joke?