Elegy of the adulteress
She termed our love making bourgeoisie.
I reminded her of a haberdasher's
mannequin in a Buñuel film.
I was every bloke she picked in bars,
the bloke she married for love.
I was not the sailor who tied
her heart into a knot. I was not the guitarist
who plucked her life strings
till her limbs sang of hidden moons.
I was a washed up hull, a yoyo.
The usual mistake her body made
every year the spring was late in coming.
By Arjun RajendranQLRS Vol. 10 No. 4 Oct 2011
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