I know you stare at the pregnant
dewdrops mourning on the leaf
and feel like Atargatis, ready to
transform yourself into a mermaid
for unwillingly killing my love for you.
I know you wonder where
these dewdrops were born.
Yes, right from my heart.
A more careful look will
reveal they are not mourning.
They are half-bird femme fatales
whose enchanting voices
want to draw you to me again.
These dewdrops have stopped
and hope to avoid a dark plunge.
You must move before my legs
fuse together and I forget my name
one stormy night
invaded by guitar music.
Mistakes happen and
rainbows do break into dust.
In every dewdrop there is a Utopia.
In every man there is a woman.
Or else, one day you might keep
asking “Is my King alive?” and count
the dewdrops on every blade of grass.
When I stop my bicycle in
the swirling dust and watch the
old woman’s lush garden I feel
like a roasted turkey on two wheels.
Once at the library the textures
and tastes of the books transform
me into a blue world map and
then flatten me into an ancient page.
The frantic bazaar decolorizes me
and I become invisible. I still
owe the egg seller a few coins.
Forgetfulness you see.
When I stop again and see the
sun stealing water from the
municipality fountain I feel eager
to serve others. I’m the type who
feels timeless when I hear the big
town clock. Yet, I fail to be proud
of my people as I see almost
everyone whizzing past with musical
corks in their ears nowadays.
I feel like pointing a gun at those
who throw cigarette butts on the
ground too. They have a head
of cauliflower instead of a brain!
I just hope Christ never quits me
and we ban selling unborn chicks
or else I shall keep buying eggs for free
and hatch them into life and
fill my street with merry cackling.
The horizon seems complacent.
The sea is sending out fingers
to accuse her of deceit.
The sea is sending out tongues
to remind her of his voice.
The girl muses with pristine glee,
sure he will forgive her,
on the bench she destroyed him.
She gazes at the overlapping love
signs drawn by crazy teens
though much is awaiting her;
yeah, carefree she sits on,
One minute sign strikes her
and her heart springs up,
as the green leaves around rustle.
On her way to him she sees him
in someone else’s arms.
She comes back and
sleeps on the sand for some time
while the sea is sending out paws.
and goes to meet the horizon.
Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur has been published in over 100 literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review, Misfits' Miscellany, Jellyfish Whispers, Kalkion and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Web Anthology. He lives in Quatre-Bornes, in Mark Twain’s paradise island Mauritius, with his cat and three dogs.