Gayatri Majumdar
The mid-morning moon milk in the sky,
sickling my eye, I scurry, pretend I’m out of time,
all ready to commit; oh, ahh, hmm. . . wait, you say,
I am not ready to commit yet.
That man on my couch wears his grey days well,
perpetually in anguish, he is lost yet erudite, he curses;
he was a robber in one of his previous lives
(or even a peer, still worshipped, tucked in a grave) –
yes, sir, we all steal. I heard it before on the radio.
I snatch the phone for a quick take or two, to preserve
this luminosity, or to remember his face when he sleeps,
he could commit, yes, if he could only stay . . . awake.
The magpie whistles in the 3 p.m. breeze,
announcing that time to discard, lower to seed,
compost and try very hard to die, not leave.
I repeat, I’m not into commitment conversing
this way with dragonflies or night creatures; liar, you reply.
Swallowing my tongue, I shift pathways leading to Betelgeuse
for Red Avadavats following their departures
from my sea-blue sky. This is way out of line.
You need to gash this deep, several inches into it – bleed
flood this artery; you even promise, you could be free.
I’ll commit to someone not so arduous-ly
committed to this, or to churning out random universes.
The 4-o’clock sun awaits a certain returning moon,
how with its fronds, he greens? Darkening
with hints of ruddiness when Persian women
call out to Girs in a desert-land.
Your commitment to non-commitment
now makes perfect sense – Venus steals a glance.