Exile

Thomas Toft

As a man approaches thirty he may

take stock of himself.

Not that anything important happens.

–

At thirty the mud will have settled:

you see yourself in a mirror.

Perhaps, refuse the image as yours.

–

Makes no difference, unless

you overtake yourself. Pause for breath.

Time gave you distance: you see little else.

–

You stir, and the mirror dissolves.

Experience doesn’t always make for knowledge:

you make the same mistakes.

–

Do the same things over again.

The woman you may have loved

you never married. These many years

–

you warmed yourself at her hands.

The luminous pebbles of her body

stayed your feet, else you had overflowed

–

the banks, never reached shore.

The sides of the river swell

with the least pressure of her toes.

–

All night your hand has rested

on her left breast.

In the morning when she is gone

–

you will be alone like the stone benches

in the park, and would have forgotten

her whispers in the noises of the city.

R. Parthasarthy