Bucketfuls of Moonsoon

Give me your hand

and I will show you

the exact line where we met.

next to the mount of Venus,

owner of the lower appetite,

and the grid of Jupiter,

wielder of bolts and giving

birth to Bacchus on his thigh.

 

– with closed eyes,

and searching hands.

Between the sacred navel

and the profane forests of spring.

 

The gypsies knew our sins preordained

and looked at our hands like a piece

Of map – a large cross where the

sin may lie, planted by some

god of mischief.

 

But I know exactly the place

where we met:

in the caves of Boreas

owner of rain-winds

and Nikta’s breast, the endless night.

 

Remember? I saved you bucketfuls of

monsoon that night. To wash our hands

of the smell of ripe bananas,

and the gods’ and gypsies’ own

lingering touch.

4 thoughts on “Bucketfuls of Moonsoon

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