Posted by: Ron DuBour | December 27, 2014





Cutting common spinach for the frying pan
is an affair of the hand involving more of my heart
than the taste buds of the tongue, always reminding
me of that newly wedded day when a trickle of blood
oozed from your freshly cut mehendi –coloured finger,
sending a young heart into a secret tremor;

I kissed the bleeding finger and you shied away
knowing little about the magic of eros in green leaves
that drew me closer to the gate of your blood streams;
making me a captive of your girlish love trickling
to the lawn of my body transpiring before vanishing
into moon beams sprinkled on white petals of night
where we were left with folded hands bereft of sight;

now I see the spinach leaves without lushness
wilting to a remote corner
with desires drying on the bed of river Alaka,
the honey-moon flowers sizzling with heat from a harsh Sun
that prods the dear of love like a hungry tiger in the old lawn;

times have changed changing the nature of love perhaps
when I see love through our anger at times speaking
like two tired soldiers, we to the camp fire retreating
not knowing anything about the truce signed by an unseen hand,
keeping mum for hours and then returning to the familiar haunt
where like two babies we quarrel over the issue of softer pillow
still in an unknown ecstasy , not knowing the pulls from below;

let us no more desire for the flower or the river, the sun or the shiver
but for the spinach and the related quiver, the common cold and fever
that can keep us wide awake through time and part us never .

comp. n copy right : saroj k. padhi

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