When it's over, when the lover's poems fail,
passion slips under and drowns.
—or is it helped down?
In a casket made by a missionary long ago
I sent all verse beneath the loch,
I banished it there,
saw it slip under and drown,
built a fig-leaf bonfire on my return,
piled chronicles on it, danced nude
beside the pyre.
I long for days of
long physical exertion, arms reaching out
to ampersand the legs, to bare yearning
down the middle.
I like it when you as pretzel master,
let me knot you to my mood, saying,
swivel me! I un-bun my hair
to eat you of course without silverware.
Rethabile Masilo, France
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