A  FRUSTRATING  SPORT

 ARUNODAY  MUKHOPADHYAY, India

 

She would not go out and begin

A futile and furtive evening.

She would not go out but comb her hair,

While the hunter is trapped in the lair.

Bewitched by the passes the bare arms make.

The arched back, the hollow of the spine

The figure slowly undulating, she is awake.

But the eyes lie hidden in the trellis of her tresses

And the shadows of her arms caress my face.

The comb moves up and down as if in a trance;

Oh fate, why must she checkmate with a mating dance.