It is not a poem
if it doesn’t smell of the oranges
you peeled in concentric whorls
on winter afternoons
in your mother’s backyard
when you were
a knock-kneed
pigtailed girl
dreaming of John Lennon

It isn’t poetry at all
if it doesn’t paint images
of fleshy flowers
with cavernous
purple mouths
and carry the hint
of secret fluids flowing
or hidden body parts
shifting and heaving

Isn’t a poem
if it doesn’t even hang
loose and limbless
like a pair of jeans
quickly shrugged off
before jumping into
an already crumpled bed
with half a dozen
plump pillows strewn
over white cotton sheets


No, it isn’t a poem
Not a poem at all
if it doesn’t make
a little bit of life
or sex
happen in your head.



© Manjul Bajaj