The Imperfect Guitar
By Amit Parmessur
Sitting on the wild rocks I marvel at the periwinkle,
fully forlorn in the nearby receding tide pool.
The whistling of the dry coconut leaves in the wind
has been accompanying my pregnant thoughts of you,
with the large and strenuous pelicans surveying the sky,
right above my bewildered head—
I have never ever thought you would leave the
land of our bond and ships would become my enemies
How dare that elderly ship steal you from me,
making my eyes scarlet in the indifferent crowd.
Sitting on the rocks with my wild guitar I
sing sweet songs of your improbable return, sometimes
dreaming of you dancing, dancing lithely in a ring
of violets, with frisking lambs, piping shepherds.
This evening I have broken a string
as my fingers are a bit too drenched in anger. I close
my eyes and imagine of you sleeping
on a bed of daisies in our favorite valley over there.
I secretly cut a hair from your peaceful head,
fixing it in my excessively grieving guitar.
I start playing again but the other remaining strings
cannot be as melodious as your versatile holy hair,
rendering my guitar uselessly imperfect.
When I open my briny and heavy eyes,
the tranquil sea surface has turned orange,
the sand is a stretch of yellow lawn
and the periwinkle is gone,
leaving the tide pool as good as a forlorn desert. I go
home like a doomed crab destined for a too salty soup.