My Krishna
Your hair was always longer and wavier than my own
and when you washed it in the evening garden,
rinsing it with the scent of primroses and nicotiana,
I’d swear the stars were reborn from its blue sheen.
You’d bring me fresh eggs, white shelled, sulphur yoked,
And all morning we’d scramble in cool, clean sheets.
At their most pungent, you’d snip green herbs and exchanging
day-dreams, we’d sip their balm in the geranium shade.
And when at night you left, as you always did,
your pillow was perfumed with mango.
Page(s) 43
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