“Come soon, to bathe, in my, Blood Monsoon”
That’s all, you had said, o’er terse, tacit call
I mused, as I stared, at lunatic moon
“What’s, with this dame, counting days, of fall”!

Neither smile, nor a hug, just a somber, remorse
“I can’t, make love, with you, tonight
It’s a, deep discourse, not, inert intercourse”
In her, deep dark den, she, set ablaze, twilight!

Such stark, she stood, bare, to the bone
Her menses, meandering, down, her thighs
Baptized, by blood, her spring’s, tombstone
Sniveled, to me, love’s, last lullabies!

Fresh fish, slaughtered, on a, Shabbat eve
No more, she smelt, of, Sweet Septembers
But a, staling time, that refused, to believe
Past has, had to lie, in, present’s hearse!

With her, hesitant mate, to her, lust’s wasteland
Lone pilgrim, to, Meno-o-pause, she was
Clenching, love’s, last straw, in, time’s quicksand
Alas, she became, her lure’s, lost cause
As she stripped, her soul, in, ‘a-sexual’ cabaret
When She, Called Me, On Her, Last Menstrual Day

© 2021 Vikas Chandra