NOSTALGIA

O mystic traveler!

As a warm gentle waft,

You’re in thro’ the secret doors of my alcove;

Snuggled under the red satin quilt,

In gentle strokes you caressed

My thirsty body;

Whispering musical words,

In the naked voice of silence,

You stole my soul,

Left behind a sorrowful corpse.

Anita Bacha

Fistful of Sand IMG_7643

THE MANGO SEASON

I think of you all the time,

But I think of you more in the mango season;
I think of you when I eat ripe mangoes,
Peeled with a sharp knife,
Sliced, mixed with raw sea salt and fresh red chilies,
Like you eat ripe mangoes in Ceylon;

I think of your visit every mango season,
My thrill when you arrived at the airport,
The unleashed love in your hugs,
The gifts of delicacies and fine lingerie,
And you, my obsession,
And your panic attacks, your bouts of depression,
Your tears and your snorts;
I’d cook for you, I’d brew your tea, and I’d warm water for your bath,
I was so overwhelmed to have you in the mango season,
Every ripe mango was a feast too juicy,
Every moment, an eternity,
A promise of unbound happiness,
Counting the days deemed pointless;

When you confessed your love for my best friend,
The mango season crashed to an end,
We’d roll over the top of mango trees,
We’d swim in a punch of thick, sticky mango sap,
We’d come out naked and sad,
As you walked away from me, my hand you forego,
I loved you so much; I had to let you go;

I wait for the mango season every year,
I wait for memories that linger,
For ripe mangoes as sweet as love and petting,
Added salt and chili sarcastically begetting
Grief and pain,
Corollaries of an amorous adventure again
Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/