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To watch you
Watching the sun go down
And revel in your ideals without head or crown,
You, whom I never loved — perhaps, I missed that cue —
I watch you as I watch sliding drops of dew

And did you know, Aparna, that where
Sex fancies go, feminists alike fuck without a show?
And I know as I knew many times and more.
Even my ego had been stirred and laid down low on
Sheets in a bed that knows no friends and foe.

Every male that’s condemned your plastic face
And said they want to screw you up your arse;
Hammer nails down your tits, cos you’re arrogant; fast —
Those males I denounced, I denounce, blacklist.
I am discriminatory. Not a feminist.

Sumathy, like Hector to sleeping Aeneas came, comes
In ear-rings and scarf and tells me: “who?”.
“Who is a feminist? What is feminist? Is a
Feminist bald? Is a feminist sexy?” What is bald?
What is sexy? What is scarf? What is sex?

Sex is the objectification of one’s desires
And the touching of flesh and untaped wires.
My desire doesn’t end with a naked torso, two or so, threeso-
-me “mae mae mae!” Yes? “Keep your hands clean, bro!”
Hands clean, wash them hands, cos you need them hands more and so.

The sunset, Aparna. The bats flying home
And had we dated and kissed on our own
Maybe, Spivak would have died in a no-fire zone.
Or, maybe — may maybe — life’s dream would have screamed
That its essence is cast. That it has no more to dream.



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