Ode to Balwant’s Dhaba

White Mischief. Gordon’s Pink.
Our stomachs seamed
with moonshine hours after downing
the Sunrise Bomb even the mischief
sold here must be packaged as white—
where I come from anyone
with a cleavage can
buy vodka fifteen year olds get
pissed because their mothers shift
the graveyard tonight hold up
traffic post selfies for the rizz
while men from the bungalows
draped in pink bougainvilleas spread
themselves across Ma’s sheets.
Their Ma works them up
so there can be more vodka.
The storefronts have a hunger
of their own tearing down cement
sieving the streets for mouths
that will do anything—
we wait like patient dogs
drunk for kulcha
halos polished with ghee.
Balwant—our hlaford
our christ. Long dead
his liver burnt
by all that mischief but still
his stove never runs out
of gas god does not get sick
leave an unstopping light
leaks through the walls
through the mortar
mix onto the street. Light
that is leavened kneaded
fried sold on paper plates
foiled with fake silver. Pieces
of god to make your insides
shine. We wash them down.
The stars in the coke
choke in our throats.