Lovelorn at 18
She wanted not to be soft down there,
Not like a fig. She wanted to be
A woodpecker's beak—
Wishing to tear apart the men.
She wished to live
In a different era, in a different space.
She wanted to be hard ad infinitum,
Not merely wear a gentle decorum
To please the flush and excited men.
College was a sweet pie,
Without much of saccharine—
She was a bitter pulp,
Yet she wanted to rouse the appetite
Of greedy boys, of hungry men.
Drenched in sunlight,
She walked to and fro—
A Mediterranean artichoke—
People thought she'd never bear the fruit
She should bear,
People thought she was not technically
But, somewhere in her mind, she knew
She'd find a man who’d chew on
Her fugitive scents, scamper up her body,
Grazing her clean, ingesting her ripe fruit whole.
She'd also love him back with a warm heart
And finally be warm-hearted in love.
She was 18—
Everything seemed possible then.
Lovelorn at 36
Taking no notice of the tin can tied to his tail,
He walks like a sick, stray dog.
The village women call away their children
When they see him passing
Through the trail between the bushes.
They recoil as if he is the Marquis de Sade in person.
With some hidden imprudence,
With an air of I-don’t-give-a-damn, no-not-I,
With some bitterness bobbling in his tail,
He walks, keeping the women away.
He thinks of manly tenderness,
Of womanly hardness,
And of everything in-between.
Wedging his face into their dark, secret places,
Eating their fugitive fruits, their flower buds—
He wants to struggle to breathe,
Inhale a little flame—yellow and brilliant—
And exhale fumes of nirvana.
He dreams of elation flowing inside him
Like the river of fire—
Flowing and endlessly flowing—
Sleeping himself to peace
With that little flame of tranquility
Still burning inside his careworn heart.
Poetry by Bibek
Read 163 times
Written on 2018-11-17 at 14:13
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