Princess dreaming, post amphibian experience in pond.

(In response to Amitava Kumar’s suggestion that ‘the princess catches herself dreaming of the oily bumps on the skin she had once kissed’.)

The princess does NOT dream of
oily, bumpy skin.

What she does catch herself dreaming of, these days,
is herself – as she was when she could kiss
frogs.
And BELIEVE them as they croaked,
‘Help! I’m a cursed prince!’

Yeah right!

But that’s how she was, back then.
Stupid.
Going around talking to strangers of another sex.
For God’s sake, another whole species!

But that’s how she was, back when
she swam in shallow ponds
that didn’t leave her body room to hide.
Ponds crusted with lotuses and
a little muck: suggestive ponds
of snakes
and tiny fish that glinted under full moons,
and frogs croaking lusty lungs out.

She dreams now of when
strange skin had a fierce hold on her
lips and when her lips
were more adventurous than she.

These days, the princess often dreams
of a splattering wet season:
lotus, leaves and lips and, as she once had been,
dreaming of a cursed prince
skinny-dipping, in emerald green.

Blessings for an Engineering Race

May you not give birth to monsters.
May your children not have the haunches
of a pig.
May your pigs not have horns
from highland cows.
May your salmon be wild
and your prawns unfarmed.
May your goats be purebred
and your cotton, white gold.
May you bloom and grow
bloom and grow
and may you know
when to stop.

Old Woman Reading Scripture in Midst of MCD Demolition Drive

To live to the age of
a crumbling wall,
turn to rock.

Rock forwards
into a book
into the fading word.

Each time a brick comes loose
hide
behind a rock
of thick glasses
and see nothing.

Hear nothing
crashing about your head.
Wear a linen cap
and
forget to tie up
all loose ends.