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On life and its vagaries

Potion Sweet

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Potion Sweet

(There’s never a breath in the room

The noon lies like a whale, dead and ashore)

 

She’s lying face down,  like a stream  quite

Its surface undulating, turning now,

A tangle of limbs, the ceasing,-surfacing of ribs.

Paul watches her, its midday outside,

Through the curtains, a window is looking in towards them

The curtains gaunt with age, frayed at seems

Stuttering in the pickled heat of the room

And  he is sweating, it’s a  sticky sweat

 

Unheard, there were knocks on a door

Insistent , urgent, then they lulled, picking up now

Who is peeking at us, he wondered,  god may be

God is the one who forbade the potion we took

Wakeup. He says to her. Her flesh damp and cool.

She stirs so slowly in sleep

Wakeup. He urges, pinching  her nose with fingers

Now she moves to the side and seems expectant

Extends one arm, eyes  clear, lips parting

 

Some god  is at the door. He hush  his whisper

Can’t be, she jerks back. Salesman may be

Sales men  know your name?

She stills now. Slithers out of the bed. Panting. 

When.. ?And  something mutes the question

“Listen.” And there was the call again.

 It was loud this time

Its him she says. It’s my lord and god.

She slides down on the bed,  a crumpled cloth

 

My god will kill me. She whimpers now

But he was not listening. He was worried.

The window latch…… it won’t open.

He was still  fumbling.

Its stuck,  she says. Its stuck

She is getting dressed even now. Teary yet.

There’s death in the air, the lights have all gone out

And there’s never a breath in the room

The noon lies like a whale, dead and ashore

 

Going where? Paul says harshly.

There’ isn’t a back door to this dump

 

Yet she seems composed, and even smiling

Don’t need one, my god won’t know

 

The hell he won’t. He murmurs. The hell he won’t

 

Then …..she’s all sweet to her god. He is kind. Urbane.

Paul works in my section, she says, came to get something.

The god seems pleasant and has a nice smile

“We had head phones on, you know, chatting with the boss!”

Hands are shaken. Drinks  shared

The god may have a cold. And cold smells nothing.

 

Now that the god is at home, he has to leave.

 

Outside it’s a hell of a noon

May be it’s the noon of hell

 

 

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2 Responses

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  1. Wow!! This is so vivid…I was really worried there for a while 🙂

    arabwriterchick

    June 2, 2012 at 9:01 pm

    • Nothing’s intentionally worrying here arabwriterchick 🙂

      Sam

      June 28, 2012 at 8:04 pm


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