Windsor Guadalupe Jr
Nikkita And A Bad Case Of Forgetfulness - Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
It was a long autumnal drive
And the suede seats of the automobile
Grunted in a guttural machine-like snarl.
The roads were forked,
And I was driving too close to the Sunlight
That had arms - and they claimed Nikkita.
I craned to look at her as she was asleep
With his two feet hoisted to the seat,
Her heart lulled into silence, her eyes slightly opened.
I laughed at her ridiculous yet splendid stance.
I nudged her shoulder, and she was startled
Into the fine fringes of the sunlight.
“Where are we heading? ” She wiped somnolence
Out of her eyes, breathed heavily as if
Preparing for a hiatus of the heart.
“I don’t know. I don’t know the roads.”
And we were lost.
It was a festive morning,
And the air clashes to the hymn of the
Synagogue bells that sang the mirth of the Sun.
She was getting ready,
And I was preoccupied by nothing but
To wait for the damsel to clad herself well.
She got out, I opened the car door
And she gave out a wry smile,
Which told me the omen of oblivion.
“Where are we going? ” I asked - with askance
And reluctance. She said, “Uhm..” She paused,
And the pause was deathly that I was propelled into a dismal trapeze.
“I remember! To the church yard! ” She said,
She lit up, like the sun, and I am once again
Driving too close to the Sunlight.
She was silent as she was marveling at the
Busy populace, the washed-up streets
And then it started to rain, and it broke her into slivers.
She hated the rain, she always tells me that.
But this time, she didn’t. Maybe she forgot.
“You hate the rain, don’t you? ” I asked
“Yeah.” She said, in nonchalance,
And I knew it didn’t matter, and I could have
Made a poem about how she hated the rain
But she would not read it,
Or forget about it.
And so I remained silent.
The streets did most of the conversation
From the blaring horns,
To the blustering wind,
And the shouting madmen at the sidewalks.
They saved me from the sheer horror
Of being alone with someone who doesn’t
Feel at all.
It was probably the cold hand of danger
Who pounded the bells of impending doom.
It was a cold November,
And the people are either
In revelries or in front of
Tombs, weeping over transient losses.
I presented myself to her,
In the most cumbersome way
And she said,
“Who are you? ”
I was smitten by this confounding inquiry.
No matter what she says,
It will not always be about a horrible
Case of forgetfulness.
It was a blight
Inside the heart
That will never ebb.
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