She follows close behind. Those silver anklets ringing Against the ladder steps.

Her throat, blue with love-bites, Sometime repeats what I Whispered in her mouth.

The only things constant Between us: desire for each Other, desire for silence.

Lifting her dark aureoles To my lips, she pretends An innocence of intent.

Lying on the bed, semi-nude, Delicacies on a green banana leaf, She mocks my hungry fervor.

She hums back a few bars Of song I was writing down. Even parrots don’t have Such brilliant red mouths!

Just before twining of limbs, She holds my wrist to see How much longer I can wait.

Some nights, waking up to Thunder, when I see her leg Thrown over mine, I think It must also hide lightning.

Going from corner to corner, Sweeping, when she passes By me at the window, a caress With just the curve of her hips.

She lies open, a book with pages curled, All the lines sketch a history before time. The only color I see, glistening red, Is when I open her to the cold air.

Read Robert Penn Warren's poem.

Their trailways: North -South Mine: East-West

The idea of journeying with seasons The idea of cycling in time.

Landscape and response to it; Mnemonic devices of memory.

Idea of fidelity: mate for life out of biological necessity. Is love between Homo Sapiens such a necessity? a possibility?

Neck held like a question mark On the cloudy page of a lake. Gliding, with staves of music trailing behind them. Why, then, Is their honking so harsh to hear?

She held up another of my poems, and demanded, “How much is this?”
I said, “In exchange I will take nothing but your heart, yes even for this.”

She says she hid her jealousy from me. Meanwhile wise men
Report of supernova to be seen burning up her skies. Like this.
She says I purposefully ignore her at times, mesmerized by others.
See her wounds? I am a sick man watching butterflies to forget this.
She says she is not sure if I can feel her soul through her body.
Am I then a worm going for the kernel through flesh, like this?
She says I am a burden who is anchoring her down with earthly love.
Not knowing painful hunger like me, she doesn’t give thanks for this.
If people dropping by for a drink ask you, “Why is Sashi becoming so pale?”
Tell them pieces of me are strewn on the grass for her sun to see. Even this.




My Poems