Boomslang Poetry

My Krishna

Your hair was always longer and wavier than my own
and when you washed it in the evening garden,

rinsing it with the scent of sundrops and nicotiana,
Id swear the stars were reborn from its blue sheen.

Youd bring me fresh eggs, white shelled, saffron yolked,
And all morning wed scramble in cool, clean sheets.

At their most pungent, youd snip green herbs and exchanging
day-dreams, wed sip their balm in the geranium shade.

And when at night you left, as you always did,
your pillow was perfumed with mango.