Friday 13 February 2015

The Battleground

Aloof
Perplexed
Stupid. I thought she would never think about me.
                        Confused
                        Losing patience
                        Inept. Her heart was in need of water.
My remoteness couldn’t read the sign.

Then in one cool
afternoon
I asked her to
come to my place. I freaked
out before
she could get
here.

She likes the conservative dress code
ironed skirts and white blouses that get washed, folded
and carefully placed at the corner of the suit case.
To wait for the Sunday service or a date.
Her shoes are between flat and high,
leaving her legs lean and clean
albeit the sun tint
As a result of her distaste for long pants.

In my crib
I kiss her
Love her
Adore her.
                        In her crib
                        She kisses me
                        Loves me
                        Adores me.
My heart is in a serious need of water.



I prepare a dozen
breaking conversation
sentences. I will
start by being
sorry that I had to
raise the topic. I couldn’t
gather courage to
speak about it, so I
curse myself and go quiet
for three months.

In between I indulge in imaginations and writing
always fighting to keep her away from my head.
I buy books from the streets, Wensley Clarkson
Hollinghurst and Adichie’s yellow sun from textbook centre.
But I get fucked up when my book man offers me a present,
of Lucia Whitehouse’s The Bed I Made.  She comes back to my thoughts
like a poorly fed ghost that has to catch up.

In my head
I make babies with her
Shower with her
for one last time
Then I give up.
                        In her head
                        she makes babies with me
                        showers with me
                        and gives up.
she steps into the empty valentine.

She calls Alvin, on the morning of the valentine
Maybe Alvin is the one,
because he has been pestering her for eons
Eons, eons
Orato eons.
She does it with tears
As if she just squeezed onions.


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