Ruth Vanita

Coming so late, you made all early
Again — all was yet to do, nothing
To say — we had said everything
Before we met, some other place.
Each meeting confirmation, each
Greeting grace. Beatitude so easy
Could not but alarm. Drawn to a
Reflection irresistibly, we
Stopped, fearing to drown.
...

Will it stretch that far? Will it go round three
Continents or four, three hearts or more,
And still slide through a ring ?
Worn and unravelled night and day without
A break, past two time zones, retain
Its sleek, original shape?
How many machines can we put it through,
How many phones, planes, taped voices
And still find it wearable?
Is our love elastic, or some finer,
clinging, skinlike, inward-breathing weave
To make all this bearable ?
...

The first word you said was not ‘love'.
The first word, when you lay, eyes shut,
In a darkened afternoon room,
When you stood, looking down at me,
Meteor in midnight leather,
When you knelt, on a green flying carpet,
Your mouth an unstereotyped rose,
When your hair caught in my lips
And had to be gently unwound.
When you came, at the start, and before
You spoke, your first word,
Your first dream, whisper it, cry it aloud,
Shine on me, rain on me,
Rise slowly on the horizon, and say,
When I ask, the same syllable, bless
Me with simple things, ring me
Round, will me to be found — yes —
yours — yes, and again, again yes.
...

It can only end in tears, she said.
It can only end. A cry went through
Me — of protest, of recognition.
Since then we have overflowed and ebbed
Over and over, tears too have shed,
Not always expected. This began
A valediction forbidding love
Lest loss ensue, but in the writing
Lost its way, and found its end in you.
...