ORIGINAL:
BETROTHED then BETRAYED.
Tomorrow at dusk
She'll be in your arms
Her face behind a mask
Read the pattern on her palms.
Tomorrow at dawn
The priest will declare her your wife
Uncover the veil, beneath the smile
there's a frown
You are not what she wants in life.
Tomorrow at noon
You'll feed from the same plate
A (g)olden honeymoon
That seals your fate.
Brother,
Before she became your bride
I plucked her petals, still tender
In the journey to womanhood, I was
her guide.
Her body is scented with my stench
Kiss her and you'll taste my lips
Feed and wait to hear her belch
There's a name in her hiss.
Look deep into the fires of her eyes
The blaze that burns to blind
Do you ever care to ask why
She's one of a kind?
Dust her bosom for my fingerprints
The contours I caressed to break
The stains on her thighs
Are of pregnancies we longed to
make.
She'll cook, just like I taught her
In bed, my name will feature
I am her eternal star
Her past, present and future.
®Oyoo Mboya.
RESPONSE:
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| Photo|Courtesy |
This are but tales you tell to satisfy your hungry past
You made a woman from a girl
that much I agree
But you remain a boy
Your words betray your ploy
Of the stains she's cleansed
Washed by the product of my loins
The hissing was quelled; she has just graduated
with a doctorate of the diploma you so graciously accorded her
I should thank you
for all the callous caresses you politely introduced her to
I could never have asked for an easier time
You are indeed godsent
I admit,
It may take a while to forget you
Its never easy to erase the opposite holotype of everything you are
Meticulous
Astute
Sturdy
Direct
She was a woman when she met me
You made her a woman
She is a queen under my care
An epitome of decorum
A royal diadem of peace
She is patience
Wrapped in royalty radiating love
She is my shield from pain
In her I find much strength
She is a queen
Executive director of the home
Symbol of my kingdom
and flesh of the flesh of my fledglings
Your one-time woman is my lifetime queen
It will take more than memoirs of your lips on hers
More than dusting prints of her thighs and bosom
It will take more than the past
for her to be annulled from this golden throne
Pablo Neruda writes I am not jealous/of what came before me I echo his sentiments.
#100daysof blogging #Day9
