[ Issue 4 / February 2013 ]

You bear my roof on your belly.

You think I’ll blow up with gratitude?

I am man and I eat only my dreams.


You were an ominous chirp

from the dark and the unseen

guiding the steps of my forefathers.


But your rendezvous on my wall

over my wakeful gaze of wants –

the moment of a lotus explosion

in the sleeping alleys of my brain.


You met your creeping mate

in a reptile waltz of sleazy grip

after eons of mutual gazing that ran

roots into time before we ever were,

a time before we cut time to our size,

a time filled with cries of love and death.

You met her in a reptile waltz

of sticky grip that tucked her then

under your love that lasted the time

a poem took to fertilize a poet.

I could never contain the truth

that you could rival us

in this crumbling act of decimation –

that you could do it with the exactness

of a radium needle, and then move apart

to mouth a willing fly in the next second

to teach me the lesson that

spending and filling is the only survival.

Prathap Kamath is Associate Professor of English at the
University of Kerala, and has published a collection Ekalavya: a book of
poems. He is also a novelist and short story writer.