Laced With Silver
Under the branches of crape myrtle I spread a carpet,
flowers slid into dark corners when I was kissed the first time.
I turned away.
Amethyst is the colour I remember of the evening thick with
nodules of mulberries. The touch,
softness of the skin was the radiant light that spun patterns blinding,
the jasmine flowers drowned me in its raunchy pungency: just for the flowers
I remember the evening,
not for the kiss
which did not gather the moon beams so abundant that night,
it didn’t even gather the pale greenness from the stalks of flowers
crushed beneath us.
|Uma Gowrishankar is from Chennai, South India. She blogs her poetry here.|