Saturday, 5 May 2012

Traditional homeland

What is the traditional homeland of love,
that born-free, living-free place
where gaze, compassionate or otherwise,
does not cause blush,
where the parameters of propriety
are meaningless,
where the 'you' and 'I'
can collapse into 'us',
where there is no
no what-ifs to inhibit lip,
stop caress
or freeze melting?
What is the name
of that world
where love
is an all-country visa
where there are no check-points
to arrest heartbeat
no physician willing to treat
the incurable sigh?
Is there an in-our-arms moment
outside of memory and longing,
being and becoming?
And are such things worth attention
today, now or ever
with intersection having bled into convergence?

[from the collection 'Some texts are made of leaves', shortlisted for the Gratiaen Award 2012]