(1964 - / New Delhi / India)

Offering

the kindness of libation, lyric, and blood
her endless notes left for me —
little secrets, graces —
trills recorded on blue and purple parchment
to be lipped, tasted, devoured —
only essence remains —
its stickiness, its juice, its memory
seamless juxtaposition —
the brute and the passion,
dry of the bone and wet of the sea,
coarseness of the page and smooth of the nib’s iridium
I try and trace a line, a very long line —
the ink blots
as this line’s linear edges
dissolve and fray —
like capillary threads
gone mad
twirling in the deep heat of the tropics —
threads unravelling,
each sinew tense with the want of moisture
and the other’s flesh
there are no endings here —
only beginnings —
precious incipience —
translucent drops of sweat
perched precariously on her collar-bone
waiting to slide,
roll unannounced into the gulleys
that yearn to soak in the rain —
heart-beat shift
the shape of globules
as they alter their balance and colour,
changing their very point of gravity —
constantly deceiving the other
I stand, wanting —
wanting more of the bone’s dry edge,
the infinite blur of desire,
the dream,
the wet, the salt, the ink,
and the underside of her skin

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