Sansa looks like he’s seven,
but leans against the pandal like twenty,
the girls holding out light offerings
to the goddess inside, while he whistles
at his friends raving to Bollywood music
in the street. When the heat becomes too much
for dancing, he slides up next to me
in the restaurant next door, the one
that has a tree growing right through
the silk roof, and I nod my head
at the refrigerator in the corner full of Coke,
tell him to get himself a cold one.
Boys like him always seem to be
in the background, following me all
the way through town some days,
small shadows in dirty blue jeans.
On the darkest night of the year, they throw
poorly-made firecrackers at each other’s feet,
and Sansa is standing outside the pandal,
holding one above his head, leaning towards me
like I’m the little boy daring him to do it,
and when it explodes inches from his face,
he doesn’t even flinch. He lets the light
pour over him like it’s the only way
the gods will ever get a good look.
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