#109
My dear, your diadem, jewel-encrusted nautilus,
A shield of serried shell and whorled pink, is us,
The gift of a god to expiate his enviousness.
I refused to let even him pin it to your headdress.
I pursue you and your captor, ten-headed Ravana,
Led on by the gems and perfumed scraps of clothing
You drop, leaving a guttering trail I follow,
As word follows word into our future Ramayana.
I know your face, how it won't betray your loathing
A rakshasa's touch, from which blister beetles grow.
Your dark eyes are fixed upon a moonlike ovum,
Wherein our twins will dream of battles to be won.
You know, my love, as well as he, that I will come,
And with his death I'll change the moon into the sun.
