Like bess
with bags bloated
with dreams of flowers and blossoms …
with honey and wax:
incessant lovemaking:
we too in the hidden treasure chest
hoard within us
throughout our lifespan
embalmed memories.
And from this archive we at times
resurrect the hesitant shades of the past
shivering
like liquid images.
Algae redolent
with memories of long bygone
suns and seas.
Like a throw of beads
in a crystal beaker
the trills of a thrush resonate,
and I, the enchanted child,
thread barefoot the fennelled spaces
where the narcissus exudes perfume.
My thoughts throng with memories
that only I can fathom
and set
like mosaic tesserae.
Sea urchins ooze juice …
the sombre wax of Candlemas …
the smell of leather skins
and the acrid smell of the hunt…
The northwest frost slivers my lips.
The requiems and the whiff of dettol.
And I, the altar boy,
at the coffin’s head …
And my mother’s warm kisses
And the tender years of my children …
Like molten lead
blood descends lazily
from the wounds
gashed open
by remembered thorns.
Ah. The taste of mastic and aniseed
scorches the root of the palate …
the smell of fennel
and the coffee reeking cough
of the monk in the confessional …
and scruples about ‘have beens’ and ‘could have beens’ …
and venial sins and seven-headed sacrilege
deserving dragging by demons
into hellfire
enshrouded as per the oratory art picture …
and the virginal sheet gets sodden
deflowered by the overflowing blood
as in the miracle of Bolsena.
“O mother, how early have you weaned me
from the warmth of your breast!
Ah, the cuddle and huddle of your love
pungent with underarm odour!”
“No backward glancing, son!
Let the wolves of memory
yelp out their sorrows.
No backward glancing, son.
Like Lot’s wife
you will turn into a pillar of salt.
No backward glancing, son!”