At times,
there may be Antarctic winds
blowing
in the body of an equatorial woman,
or a frozen woman
might suddenly decide
to shed her shriveled skin
at the thawing touch
of her emotional spring.

There may be periodic cycles,
tides,
but there is
no way to guess or be sure
what it is that
a woman wants.
 

For rapport
a deeper assent is needed
than a mere “yes” from her conditioned lips.
To choose the right time for being with her,
the “almanac of your convenience” is
obsolete.

Being in love with you is not
a decision of her intellect.
Love is a tricky whim
of a woman's heart.
What may be just a whim
is all she has as a treasure
in her well-guarded
velvet-lined inner heart.
 

Therefore,
before you take one step
inside her fragile rainbow,
take the mantle of your
male superiority
off your back
and leave it at the doorstep
of her variegated bed chamber.

For hundreds of years
you have attacked her
in the name of love.
You have tried to
vanquish her as an adversary
in the name of your
fictional manhood.
 

There is an image
floating over the face
of a modern lover:
a caveman tearing down Venetian blinds,
dragging a woman by her hair
to his water bed.

What an irrelevant
and irreverent memory in your genes,
the incorrigible habit!
The blood just flows in that direction
like a horse
cantering to its stable.