Friday, February 01, 2013

kama mada moha



I. kama


It caught me completely off-guard.


I drew a long, sweet breath and pulled myself down into pada-hastasana. As I settled my chest against my thighs, as I have done so many hundreds of times before, I looked at my feet on the mat beneath me and was suddenly electric with the memory of your mouth around my toes. The room around me disappeared; the rivulets of sweat slinking along my spine and legs suddenly traced my topography with the exquisite tickle of your remembered fingers, and I nearly toppled to the floor.






II. mada

Your voice is always a surprise. 


So much time passes between my hearing of it; somehow, I can never recall the exact measures of its details -- how many parts bassline resonance, whisper, arch-eyebrowed tenor, silence, growl. Though your writing carries the cadence, there's a singular pleasure in the first few words you speak when we see each other, as it is only then that I can match the familiar beats of your language to the rest of the remembered instruments.





III. moha


I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. 

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, 
all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. 


I hunger for your sleek laugh, 
your hands the color of a savage harvest, 
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, 
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. 


I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, 
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, 
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, 


and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, 
hunting for you, for your hot heart, 
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.


― Pablo Neruda

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