The answer could only be yes. Or,
(as James would have it) it was a question,
the way she turned back to him
seemed to say, that deserved
a responsible answer. Yes.

That yes unravelling her slender years
Nanda soiled by salon talk, by dreadful
knowing, and yet her wanting
to transcend – finally –
it. And transcend her too – her own

mamma, who, when speaking of her own
mother, asked the question ‘Why, do you call
mamma a “phrase”?’: mere mention
makes it clear. Again, the
only responsible answer:

yes. And Nanda, thoroughly modern –
her own key, even, and licence to serve
tea to her rotation of
visiting men: the shame
unspoken, but generally

felt. Too delicate to have out – yet
hashed out all the same. In the modern way.
Trapped – the very paradox
of her own condition:
loving in vain – tainted and true.