Poem: Hyde Park for an Iyer

She tells him to come
in December, so they can
see small ducks freeze
their butts in the Serpentine.

The Geese make eyes,
like Bharatanatyam dancers.

I will hold your hand, tell
you stories. This bird was
a fat priest, at your ancestor’s
turmeric-coconut filled wedding.

But, what will we do with my
anklets in this city? The birds
don’t eat them, and they scare
the British squirrels away.