I culled once words for you,
and soaked them for eons
in the warm water of my love,
till they sprouted green,
tender shoots of belonging.
But you dismissively said,
you disliked the mess,
those fibrous tangles of
language and emotions,
demanding neater ingredients,
some less-original recipe.
Obedient, I dipped virgin words
in love’s formless batter
and in oils of heated passion,
fried them whole.
But the insides, you complained,
had remained tender, and
the crunch was missing.
I took then to buying words -
pasteurized - to coating them
with thick spices of pretence,
and baking them dark.
You liked, I noted,
words better for being staler.
The dressing of irony
you preferred to ingenuity;
and consumed lustily unconcerned,
the thick lacings of sarcasm.
I laugh now as I buy words
dressed for use,
frozen, measured, packaged.
This laughter of a bereaved
lactating bosom consumed with
the constant ache of words
unasked for, unshed.
- from Moon in My Teacup (2019)
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