TUESDAY POEM: KISSING THORNS

Poet’s Note: Unrequited love could come in different forms but ultimately it bequeaths one with the memory of rejection. So here is one of those poems from the Ife/Ilesa days, a soft one about skin texture, tactile anticipations and turn-downs. Enjoy.

 

Last night was the worst:

goose pimples and a hard-on.

But what was I supposed to do

with two useless tools of humanity?

You slept through it all,

twisted, turned like

obliging was subliminal,

but consent is such a conscious

thing.

Nights have passed into days,

exchanged batons like puppet-athletes,

doing their funny dance at this

theatre of funny funny love.

I wanted you for Christmas,

a warm cuddle of joy,

gift from south-eastern gods,

but you skipped away in a green vehicle,

shot out of reach, before I

could say Wesley Guild.

Loving you is not easy,

it is not hard either, it stays in

the middle like negotiated

subsidies. But kissing you

would have been easier without

all these thorns.