Pirates
your back is an umbrella
a shield from the warm shower.
passionfruit scented petrichor
spews from the open mouths
of half-empty gel bottles,
twisting into a pall that presses
into our shimmering physiques.
the dirt on you dies with each scrub of my soapy hands.
even with vision clouded with mist, i see the strands of darkened hair
sticking to your forehead.
we wear coats made out of cling film and cling to each other like
lovers in a movie
marked with tragedy.
you turn around and a torrent slips
past your shoulders, drenching
my face. i splutter, reach out, blindly grabbing at your waist to steady myself. we are laughing and flailing –
a slippery spectacular shining
in this steamy space like stars.
my hands form a crescent that shifts down my face to soothe stinging eyes. i step on your foot by accident –
you either don’t mind or don’t want lather leaking between your lips. shampoo shackles one eye shut, my mouth pulled
northeast as my left eye peeks
out into the storm we have trapped in this tub; it finds the lighthouse of your body looming over me. you laugh when you say
i look like a pirate.
as i burst out laughing too,
i think, god,
i would walk the plank for you.
Jay Mitra
your back is an umbrella
a shield from the warm shower.
passionfruit scented petrichor
spews from the open mouths
of half-empty gel bottles,
twisting into a pall that presses
into our shimmering physiques.
the dirt on you dies with each scrub of my soapy hands.
even with vision clouded with mist, i see the strands of darkened hair
sticking to your forehead.
we wear coats made out of cling film and cling to each other like
lovers in a movie
marked with tragedy.
you turn around and a torrent slips
past your shoulders, drenching
my face. i splutter, reach out, blindly grabbing at your waist to steady myself. we are laughing and flailing –
a slippery spectacular shining
in this steamy space like stars.
my hands form a crescent that shifts down my face to soothe stinging eyes. i step on your foot by accident –
you either don’t mind or don’t want lather leaking between your lips. shampoo shackles one eye shut, my mouth pulled
northeast as my left eye peeks
out into the storm we have trapped in this tub; it finds the lighthouse of your body looming over me. you laugh when you say
i look like a pirate.
as i burst out laughing too,
i think, god,
i would walk the plank for you.
Jay Mitra
