She doesn’t always come out of the mouth
Of a toothpaste tube. Fact not fiction.
That is the cardinal rule for a woman.
It is the mystery, the allure, the face-veil
We don’t see past. The mystique.
And in India and Sri Lanka, women
Marry men they have never set their eyes on,
Arranged marriages, horoscope tuned
Musicals of flesh, on wedding nights.
When the stars all align
To the confluence of two bodies
Astrology is a myth.
So is the woman on the marriage bed
Who gives only her body and keeps the many-sized pips
Hidden beneath the peal.
And she wants you to peal her in soul
In heart, in every other way than making love
To make her, not just a kettle that whistles
But to indulge in the aroma and taste of tea
In her enumerable strengths.
A woman will always cloud your judgment.
The fog in your heart that dews
All the right places. And it is the billion dawns
Of a woman that you fall in love with;
How when you draw the curtain in the morning
You find a different combination of quanta.
Of light. Of temperament. Of weather.
And the man carries a parasol
Not knowing whether she will glow
Or rain or do a tandem. If you’re lucky
Though she will show her true colors streaked
From earth to heaven. The mystique of a rainbow,
When through the rain drops you see
The colors of a perennial woman
Telling you who she is.
A universe beneath her breasts.
A macrocosm inside her soul.