Saw him first,
Groping in the dim light of my allowing eyes,
So I squeezed him in, with my gentle hands.
He stepped forward, wishing only not to be a stranger,
But just a friend for now,
Maybe, if God willing, even a dreamy lover, later.
Guided his already-blind eyes, with my gentle hands,
Saying they are lively, saying they are warm,
Read his poems, saying they are vitreous,
Saying they are mystical.
Even now I remember how it felt when I squeezed
His heart like a ripe yellow mango in my fist.
Slurpy, squishy, dripping all over my fingers and palm.
Had a hard time keeping it in my grip,
The yellow juice already sticky,
And when it unexpectedly flew squeaking out of my palm,
Hit the clean white fridge door,
And landed spinning round and round on the cement floor,
Suddenly the mango was not juicy anymore.
I washed my hand, cleaned my teeth, feeling more yucky.
As the water tasted salty, I stared at my hand,
And wondered what the hell was all that about.
Then, satiated, I suddenly remembered,
That I ought to be independent,
That I ought to be, dedicated
To my first love, to my family, to my children,
And to my provincial right and wrong,
And that I ought not to let in
That that I ought not to give in
So I touched my breasts
Said they are not special
Said he is blind.
Young women these days
And so, self-centered,
Married, betrothed, dedicated.
Groping out of the dim light of her accusing eyes,
He stepped forward,
Now as a stranger,
Wishing not even to be a friend,
But still, maybe, if God willing,
A dreamy lover, some day.