The Taller Woman as Lover

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My height is a problem in
Having a taller woman as lover,
Though five foot six is the rate per hour
In which average Lankan males like mine are made,
We’re pre-postmodern by a two decade

Or maybe three — maybe not pre-postmodern
Or modern at all. Pre-modern, perhaps,
Victorian stuff, with a queer tin-tinge of a
Medieval rope, with which a slave, then, was tied
Against his hope.

Of kings, princes, dauphins, ten giants,
Sinhale-s, of guardians (like in boroughs of old),
Traitors, tale-tellers tell tales are told and sold and bought.
Mike Atherton shuffled, was struck on the pads
And Curtly Ambrose had him removed for naught. (That was

In 1995, in the Old Trafford test; he was a newly sworn
Minister in a new cabinet, then). Far from all this making
Of cultural imperialism; farther before the hand that fed him
Recoiled like a used cock to repeal and shed him,
Before the battle was lost and won. Before, the people said

“You are the One”

This matter satellited my brain by day
Though at night, in dreams, she would have her way,
It, like a wreathe beckoning empire, coiled around and hissed
Of the possibility where a taller woman would have
Such regions kissed. It is sad, you know:

This want of democratic space and
The means to stretch your arms and legs
And voice. The vote, someone said, was
The symbol of choice. Of the slave in a rope
Tied fast to his hope. Rajapakshe and COPE

Go hand in hand. Before long and as
Your brows lift in skeptical wonder
Let me undo the mischief and lead you straight from wrong:
It is Wijedasa I speak of – and not Mahinda -:
He was ex-chairman of the committee that framed Al Capone.

Atherton LBW to Ambrose



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