If I Were to Go Down in History

If it were to go down in history

I could say 

I never met a nawab with a loose tooth, how 

we pulled out smoke from gums, pulled out 

fire from bricks, fat hands marinating a fat piece 

in soaked skin as thin as noon’s preservation 

cooking the day without moderation. It is not

a charge, this charging of heat we must outrun, 

We are all under a little heat. 

It is the accusation of not knowing when to stop. 

The little heat. It is what I know of slow-cooking. 

The little fire. The little flame. The little instruction, 

let it be. I insist – 

I am the last surviving proof of opulence, we have been 

pounding legalities, legacies, loose lips. Switching a little letter. 

I heard uttar was going to be uttam. I was going to be our greatest direction. 

If it were to go down in history, 

we want us to keep going. Is it not, the last survivor 

melts in your mouth. It is history, the one-armed man’s kebabs. 

It could go down like that, history in one hand. It insists – 

it was not lazy, not luxurious, not letter-less, not listless. 

I know we will fall off a bone even as we rush to get out 

from under each other.