Raadha, her grief

You are from my class:
Your grandmother hauled sand on the beach
My father’s uncle massaged foreign-skinned women
And touched his groin with the free hand.
Your father broke away from the Folk,
He saved education and favours
And made enough money to make a life,
And wedded the class he had not,
When he bedded your mother that night.

What slid through the wet walls of your mother
Is the emancipated shaft of a low class,
Made big by money and status. The boy
Whose father plucked and threw the
Coconuts down from the crowned trees
Fed on your mother’s classed coconuts,
Making her come – impregnating her with new seed.

And today, three decades and two children later,
He goes to the cemetery on VIP shoulders.
You are in your funeral clothing and
Your grief has made you distraught and tired
That it adds to your voluptuousness
Making me want you more and more.
You give me orders to run errands as
The class status your father had made your birthright
Has taught you to do.

You, the grand daughter of a sand hauler of
My village, my class —
Very soon I will take you to the
Coldness of the storeroom where
One by one the guises you have been trained to take for granted
Must be slowly shunned —
Where the fragrance of your skin,
Anointed by powders too real for softness
Should be sucked off your golden skin.
Where, in the emptiness of a reverberating hollow,
Dumbed and dazed by the shock of an unfamiliar warmness,
You must be entered and fucked long, out and in.

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Prajapathi, her navel (II)

Prajapathi, warm goddess,
On the bed forbidden to me by your
Fruitless marriage, when I
First freed you of your arresting robes
And feasted – like first man –
On the rich offer of your
Fruitful orbs of lust,

As you punctuated into my ear
Love moans unheard by the cobwebs of that room
For months and months,

As you squirmed in a feeling that you
Were battling within your own self to
Master and to let it master you,

I touched the depth of your navel
With the stab of a flickering tongue,
Hissing into its curvaceous hollow
The wetness of warm desire, roping it with
The hoovering round of my mouth,

And I felt your flesh contract,
Your breath hold high,
And I knew, Prajapathi, that you needed that touch
Which would carry a message to your depths,
For you to be released into my love.

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Prajapathi, her navel

A perfect circle
And a geometric genius,
Deep in its hollow
For a lover’s tongue to dip in.

The right size to hold a
Marble, laid down with love,
A container for a dew drop
And a sight to make you spin.

As you spasm it shudders helpless, so lost, intoxicated,
Purdahed under your tank tops, in silence, under-rated.

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