This strange building, park-lined
porched with old couches
shadowed by (whispered with) new bamboo
do you see?
You blow me kisses from doorways
and I extend the metaphor to breaking point.

Did you promise to check for submerged logs,
those floating branches,
before I jumped in?
Or did you promise they wouldn’t  (to) be there?
(Or did you make sure to make clear
that you’d made no promise at all?)

You blow me kisses from doorways
from bus stops, the driveway
as I marvel at what the soles of my shoes can endure.
I wear yesterday’s clothes.
You blow me kisses from doorways
say no regrets but no guarantees
love but not ‘in love’.

I step in butter, I step in squashed fruit.
I try to (can) be the shadow of the bird on the branch
of the tree that I lie beneath.
But I remain like this.
You blow me kisses from doorways
and the back lawn struggles
to release a shimmering moment of bees.

© Saradha Koirala 2011

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