THERE’S NO NEED
to open your blueveined legs into a V for
dirty Ravanas to devour your nectar.
There’s no need to steal your father’s trishul
to send deadly forks through your brain. No
need to squeeze your breath between
your fingers and throw it down Mount Meru.
There’s no need to lynch any dreams. No need
to plan a long sleep
by swallowing an overdose of heroin.
No need to believe that true love
is an oceanic hole in which you’ll be fooled
and torn again and again. There’s absolutely
no need! I’m going to slide into your life like
a crimson Christmas candle,
like a noble savage from some African cave,
burning bright each day,
chasing the sinuous shadows away.
Virgin hearts know how to love.
I’ll hug you in the warm rain,
ringing sanskrit out of your soft heart.
We’ll run barefoot in the garden of fertility
listening to the cries of our sweet baby.
There’ll be no Nāginīs.
There’ll be no need to die.
Let’s live. Now. Sweetheart.
Old virgin hearts make love.
Night and day.
Amit
