Pockets Of Halos Poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul

leaves speak
to me

it happens as I dance barefoot
along the path, in your pocket of halos
carrying an old tin can with water for flowers

I wish I still had their smell.

there, in folds
uncorrupted
is where I want you to love me

with your eyes
the exact color
of a silverbell’s ripe seedpod
with my skin
all curving, plump
tender and wanting
looking as dandelion down
while tipped in your glow

in this sacred garden
my breast is open
for you to see
its written
you are my love

and in begging you to stay
I carefully fill your hands
with fresh herbs, before
light finishes it’s weave
across your face
hoping to remind you
of our souls from other lives