Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Aftermath

It took years for my shell to grow.
A million skin cells bled, and dried,
then decayed to dust - like men at war -
and fossilized over millennia into
scales of tempered steel.

I must have defied countless sieges - 
that coat of mail and dermis had
endured wound and rust - but you,
you chipped, pried and plucked away
one loose scale at a time.

I've no more skin cells left to bleed.
The marauding's done. Move on to your
next plunder while I vainly scoop
my armor -- water in your wake --
together into ice.

Monday, July 6, 2015

Attar of rose

I knew not quite what I sought at
A winter bazaar in old Calcutta --
Terracotta, conch shell, a silken mat --
When I chanced upon the finest attar
Of rose in a crystal vial. A whiff
More giddying than opium milk; a sniff
And cities fell and crashed and burned.
Intoxicated, I returned
Infinitely to a joy olfactory,
Until at last the vial was spent!
I've plundered fen and glen; that scent
Eludes me in all but memory.
Had I perhaps been more restrained,
A vapor might have yet remained.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Stay.


Your form is clearer than water when
I close my eyes - dots, spots, crinkles, 
and all your smiles - despite the distance 
of a thousand miles, 
but the distance of a thousand years
will snatch every day one tiny detail - 
toe, smudge, fingerprint, white spot on a nail.

Had I been blind when I found you, 
and let my palms eternalize your pulse,
your breath, the warmth around you, the
contours of your kneecaps - 
these sensations and not those sights - 
you might have lingered endless eternities, and
I'd last a thousand fights.


Monday, March 30, 2015

Nights in March

On nights like this the roads and streets
Are wet with rain and taut with breeze,
But this - my king-sized bed -
Is bare and still and dry as husk,
Yearning for the warmth and musk
Of your breast instead.