When we had first tangled ourselves into an awkward kiss, for which a mild-dose of gin and tonic had acted as a catalyst, you had asked me with those eager eyes and chiseling breath: make me a poem, will you?
I had disagreed, for:
to have you constructed in poetry,
was to deconstruct the language itself –
mine out words and lay them – layer by layer (like our four out of five bedsheets lined up in the laundry basket – oh, you do not like making love on the same bedsheet again – and that’s why my days were spent doing laundry).
To write you in a poem
was to also end you with a period – a full stop,
or not (have them jumbled up – hadn’t we jumbled up the syntax in our lives when our days merged into nights and nights merged into days, and that the only thing which mattered at any tick of the clock was to be in each other’s presence – engulfed in the thickest mist of passion, dripping with drops of ecstasy).
to have you in my arms
would be to live till eternity, die at will;
nothing more was ever asked for,
nothing more was ever needed,
Oh, Marcy, a poem for you is long due;
you have seen me maturing me as a lover,
perhaps my poetry will mature someday too.
Stay around until then, will you?
Art by Sandy Skoglund