a day / eight years ago / we are at the staircase to the college west wing / the hallway opens / into History i kiss / the dimple at the corner of your lips / History frowns / through cobwebbed veil
we are allowed to / have this / to love to / become / each other / this is our colour this / sublimation / this is us
leave the door ajar / we’ll make dinner in the moonlight / we can’t pay our bills but the / rain / is generous / where the ashwattha forests sleep / we’ll be together / it will be enough
we won’t have to / hide / we’re not wrong / not condemned not / Sinners / for the pyre / our bodies mean more than / the red ripe fruit of / sex
our blood is still warm History / has its eyes closed / ashwattha forests weep / you don’t have to / let go / take my hand i will / wait / somewhere within the / lightness / of our half-tangible shades
Izraq Jesen, occasional writer with a preference for all things inedible and unsavoury, wishes to be born again as a silver-antlered doe.