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Broken-hearted, memories are my prop In my season of fractured hopes Memories: sweet times recalled As if by rote, my anti-dote Against these claws that scrape My bleeding heart like crabs, Carbuncular ,in a fish-monger’s tray
To survive the pain, I fled Yet memories hold me hostage Like Kurumi, I paddle here, I paddle there, yet my boat remains
Regard me, now, with a kind eye Absolve me with an answer: Do you tremble with longing; Do you feel my desire; Can you smell my lust?
The scent of the he-goat Is the giddy tang of lust I am the he-goat Lust for you overwhelms
I bleat along the empty streets I turn my nose up I chase your scent I find nothing
For our voyage ended long before we set sail Like a tough word marooned in a stutter.
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SENTINEL POETRY #29, Online Magazine Monthly, April 2005, ISSN 1479-425X |
