Two leaves and a bud.
That's the rule. My mother taught me before I could read:
not three, not one, two leaves and a bud,
the tenderest, the top, the first flush of the year.
So why does your hand keep coming to my bush,
all down the row, all morning,
when there are ten thousand bushes in this garden
and the mist is thick enough to hide in?
I know why. I'm not stupid.
I'm only pretending, the way the mist pretends
it isn't lifting.
Your fingers brush mine on the same green shoot
and I feel it in the soles of my feet,
in the wet earth through my chappals,
in the place at the back of my neck
where my hair is coming loose from the clip.
My bangles say something. Glass bangles can't keep secrets.
By eight the sun is through,
red and gold over the shade trees,
and my basket is light and yours is lighter
and the overseer is shouting at someone else, thank God,
and you've stopped pretending to pick at all.
You're only looking at me,
at my mouth, at my throat where the sweat is,
like a man reading the first page of a letter
he's been waiting all winter to open.
Two leaves and a bud.
The tenderest. The top.
I put down my basket.
I let you take
exactly that.
