Grass

The memory of a football field
weaves itself into a poem,
images rush in
like legs of men;
thighs so fit and sweaty
you could wrap your life around them
for the kick.

The grass is always greener
around the opponent's goal post,
so explained the footballer to the grass;
but I grow whichever way I please,
the bruises left by men in half-pants
never seem to heal.

Does the grass have memories?

There are some men who bend over
and kiss me, sometimes
remember to touch
with their faces and hands,
and not just their feet,
what holds them up.

Some nights the goal posts stand like
lovers who can never meet,
except exchanging conversations
through the grass
that is green on both sides,
and lays herself down
at both of their feet,
like so much melancholy,
so many unsaid things,
the unrealized goals, that never reached.

An island of lush green victory,
or a sea of loss and misery,
she wavers between
two points, outdoing neither
and none-
the broken nose of Bastian,
the falling grace of Zidane-
are both memories,
folded back into
a green body.

December 2015

Augmented

This is how the first humans lived.
Sound of bird, sound of trees,
sound of night passing
like a traveller through
the forest, whistling,
at her own pace, moon looking over
like a friend.

We pay for hard-earned vacations,
getting advised to take trips
to places we are originally from.
Original Birthplace hidden
behind Original Sightseeing Buttons.

The earth trembles, now often,
shudders, craving memory
of trees and another time,
history that is forgotten like extinct species, 
un-heard like fallen trees 
in forests, stories that disappeared like 
early morning dew from afternoon leaves.

The promise lingering
in hi-res Windows wallpapers
threatens to be only dream,
only 3D, only augmented
reality.

4/11/15

More

I disengage and dismount
from your body, your thighs-
soft and pliant
under my desiring thrust.

I drift to the other corner
of the bed, bated breath
waiting for your leg
to fall over my leg.

Seize this moment, seize this night,
and ruffle it enough
till words emerge
from the vortex

trees shaken loose of
birds and leaves,
confetti sparkling all around
us, and covering our feet.

This is what poems are made of.
This is what poems are for.

The agitation- momentary, transient,
made extraordinary,
like the seconds before orgasm
followed by the release.

Then the waves reach the shore.
There will always be more.

His

He digs for ore in my garden.
I sprout newer blossoms for
his mantelpiece made from
ivory and honey,
stolen from my other natural cousins.
His basket he fills with my babies-
Oriental cows milked for monies-
his sons will never see.

I refuse to plead to indifferent gods,
they control the sky, the stars,
except the elusive man
who steals, who kills, who drills
his likeness with his prick.
I grow sick, disease and death
surround me, my limbs too weak
to resist his radiation.

Maybe I will grow wings
only in my dreams now
I sing, paeans to all that was
sacred and feminine.

October 2015.

Typographical Error

Benodbehari's flowers
and the women with big eyes 
in the garden.
Are they too far now?
Too far to make sense, of 
this country for no women?

No country for women
No-country

The woman without a country,
does she count?

She counts trees in her cuntry.
Disloyal to Word.
Disloyal to Country.

Making errors have come 
to make sense.
She types her cast away.

It may be beautiful, but it is not home.
It may be country, but it is not warm.

Between the mother's thighs,
the hard grip of soft flesh,
the release of blood and life,
her birth-place.

Each woman's cuntry,
Each woman's birth, an act of disloyalty.

No, she doesn't count in No-country.
The country of no, is no birthplace,
it knows no yes.


August 2015

Tempting the Bride

My frown arches into a grin
A Wedding! A Wedding!

Typical,
they do not call

inside my cave
I hoard,
artillery and ammunition,
and spit
superstitiously on the wall.

A cavewoman,
a witch,
the snake-goddess,
and her best friend,
the bitch.
Our wine parties
a hit-
list nailed
on all doors.

The redness in my veins
is pure and flawless.
Your red forehead
only gives you pimples and rashes.

Row your boat towards my shore.

It's rarely cozy
or warm,
but my cave is deep
and it keeps.

Your bed stinks 
of too many
bruised flowers
already.

Bereft of a ribboned ending,
I gift you-
Possibilities.

May 2015

Centrifugal

the need to move away
from bastard revisions
of your very self

the definitions filling the axis
like vials of female blood
make up traditions

that hurt and cut
the cord, that connects - invisible, organic
you with your self

the Centrifugal in you

foot caught on rope
trap set to pull
you, in and further into

in your mind
you un-weave the web of
the spider, the hunter

unfurling as they pull you in
unfurling until all they find
is the empty noose, the shed skin.

10/06/2015

Green light steadies
from yellow flicker.
The holiday is over.

I can only bear because I've learned to.

The occasional elbowing
doesn't hurt so much
as gets hurt itself.

Others' expectations
won't kill so much
as still the feathers of the bird in your dreams.