How the wedding day, had two shifts,
We danced in both. In the dayshift
To a Christina Perri number,
That, the first and only dance,
And the other, to the silence of
The night. The little we knew, about
The dance moves, the choreography,
And still we did something
That night. How when we were small,
We would let our fingers, be
Planted next to a candle, making shapes of
Beasts on the adjoining wall, and
Now 30 years later, we merged our shadows,
The silhouettes that possessed, many blends to it,
Each one a polaroid moment,
Far though, from a Hollywood portrayal
Of rose petals and scented candles.
We were the anomalies of our time.
How we let our bodies discover the secrets
We hid for so long, the hiccups
Of a larynx, and the little noises, they make.
How on kerosene flames and bantam sounds,
We embarked, kissing ear lobes, a bifurcated chin and
A cushioning neck. How beautiful for the body to
Hiccup, saying, you get to make me happy.
We heard, the owls hoot that night, while one fire
Fly crept in, and still we remained aglow in physiognomy,
Like lit street lights, till the wee hours of morn.
I woke up at dawn, to a garter
On the floor, reminding me, that
Mandorias and halos are disposable.
I remembered fumbling onto ecstasy,
Like a Sarah Mclachlan song, reminding me that
Rubicons are to be crossed. I had made
Love to a woman, ironically called Alexander,
Who history says died nearing in on 33, a fraction
Younger than Jesus. My wife was too 32,
One our wedding day. How she mined my ore,
When I could only ponder, “Oh Sweet Jesus”,
How a tungsten filament was lit
That night on top of a street lamp,
Startling me, at how the mandoria,
Around me was now gone, forever.
How 33 too, is
The international code for France,
Where love is a little death
Or a beautiful agony, while here
In Sri Lanka, it’s called serendipity.
How I became like penicillin,
On the marriage bed, our petri dish.
How we are furnished with the serendipity,
Of knowing, we don’t have to muffle noise,
Inside our love shack.
I guess, the best thing about love is,
Navigating the space-less,
Letting the customized fittings,
Of our plumbing, mature,
To the mercurialness of touch.
How we no longer measure, making love,
To a sacrament, or a syndrome;
We have now passed,
Our savage honeymooning years.
We now make no big deal,
On what transpires on the marriage bed,
Self-aware, that the art of love,
Is not just about, gifting an alibi to memory,
As poets, time and again, profess,
It is just as much, a rehearsal,
For the next time, we kindle.