A poem for love

You should go-
I should work.
Or sleep-
Because my lids are like the sun and the horizon on a windy afternoon;

Aching to meet…


All I think about,

Are how your chocolate fingers slip through the mess on my head.

My own queer appendages wrap around your throat;

Like Atlas’s

Around the belly of the sky…

And sometimes,

I wonder,

In crimson dreams,

How your little baby breasts look


And free…

My mind opens up to the body,

Like a sunflower…

What am I,

If I don’t see

The depth that separates the border of your breasts

From the boundary of your tummy

With the tip of my fingers?

I trespass the no man’s land

Navigating what can only be a world

I was not supposed to see…


And through closed eyelids,

I see stars on a night sky,

And the moon,

Floating like a flag on a pirate ship…

My body is a slave to the endocrine,

As logic and all of her secretaries take a holiday,

And I walk home through ordeals,

Like Odysseus after the Trojan War!

But I am already home.

-Shakya Bose


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