An Indian Princess Poem by Diana Thoresen

Sri Mahalakshmi herself
Couldn't have granted me
A sweeter boon than a smorgasbord

Of bamboo fingers on her thighs
And kiln-fired magenta bikini straps
Diya, Priyanka, Chandani

Jyoti, Madhavi, Radha are the names
Etched on her mother-of-pearl earrings
A cold Artemis man in my conceptualism

I am self-absorbed in sterile purity
The camera is grasping for another Atalanta
With a tiara of photonic light around her

I skate, swim, run, hike in the countryside
My sprinkling waters are aflame with anger
The ponies prance and bristle with oafish words

Swifter than a setting tropical sun
She is Kumari, Indrajit, Aishwarya
While every honeyed paperbark tree

Trembles before my mace, conch and disc
Her cinnamon scent stills me as a slice
Of grilled prosciutto wrapped asparagus

Explodes in my mouth and a glass of basilisk
Rioja wine removes all batwing sorceries in each
Town and terroir on that ungodly Phoenician soil