The urge is too real, Raadha,
To tell the world who you are —
To admit to you that it aches inside not to
Take you, to rip your clothes,
To meet your yearning eyes with mine and to
Slide it deep inside. And to push it an inch more,
To inhale your sigh.
While we sit taking our sugared tea,
The silences intervening.
Your eyes – there is a tension which I
Think is the half-hearted call of the
Desired, still wavering.
But, only if I could tell you,
That the only tea I need is brewed in you,
That is need not be sugared, that it
Need not be as thick as this: that
There’s only one plunge I have in mind
As we make the smallest talk
On irrelevancies and topics that
This tension cannot bear.
This, Jeeva, will be our last day
For an entire month and a half,
For your lover returns from the shore
Herding back his fat grown cattle and staff.
Lie back for me, Jeeva, like a corn flower
And let all inhibitions take flight,
For the evening still is young, the sun recedes,
And there are hours to go before the night.
The room tantalizes in your fragrance,
Your being illuminates the corners cold,
As birds faraway take to playful wings,
Let me loose myself on you, be brave and bold.
In the kitchenette the kettle issues its wheeze
And you stir gently on my finger as you rock,
Your eyes are fixed at the approaching clouds
And my key, as its oiled, turns on the lock.
Moan, soft Jeeva, moan with the kettle on the side,
For that holy water that wets my hand
Is the very water from which all life came,
That led men into battle, in search of Promised Land.