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R. Rabindranath Menon

She was like a primeval fire
shining like day at night, dark gloom
pervading during day, consuming
even time in its vortex; no flame,
ash preventing fulfilment

Like a locker with its master-key lost,
refusing to open to the user’s half,
stuck up between throat and lips,
shut down between desire and its
denouement, a nympho’s predicament.

In her the ocean heaved and struggled
for the moon which waxed or waned
with no difference to her. The climate
didn’t affect her climax, the mate
was secondary to her prize state.

Emotions? Semblances filled cracks
between ennui and fantasy - tracks
of romances. Imagination’s dynamics
clashed with static realities, theatrics
ruled her world of thirsts half-quenched.

Did I love her? yes, as a moth to flame
too cold to burn, too warm to repel.
The magnetism of half-cocked defeat
held me in ecstatic thraldom to claim
a victory that had no other name.

Vivacious, vibrant, ever ready to sublime
her steaming sex into nobler cause,
between hyphens a parenthetical clause,
her life illumined into bold relief
by dark moments, she was compensation enough.