Perfumes

Wicked wind hammering on doors and windows, Trying to storm in while we lay on a green bed, My left hand under your head, and My right hand embracing you. Your ebony breasts flapped like a pair of vanilla pods From Madagascar, Slapping me with the sandy flames of Sahara. You open your casket of perfumes, A mysterious fumigation defying traditions of smells, blanketing Us with misty fragrance, and I prepare my burial in your arms, Burning an aged incense to prove my existence. Rivers converging in your wild hips, and I oar my wheel with creaks and sighs. Do not be angered, my love, by the shrieks of a mocking bird, For it too is calling its mate before the moon fades away. We should be busy bathing our love with spikenard sweats From my hills and Ylang-ylang juice from your beloved Comoros washing your Ruddy countenance While your bewildered eyes reach a point of no return, And I inhale the musky evaporation from your jar Overflowing with newborn perfumes. My love, let us write poems with perfumed words And scent the curses of veneering poets to venerate poetry.