Training in an afternoon,

by Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani

you poised on a cushion chair
fit for a queen. I sit attractive,
primly balancing my aching back
on the edge of my seat, identical
ivory white, my legs crossed
like a lady of grace, feet tucked
the way it should be, in the plush
dining room of your tasteful villa
narrating to me tales of Neverland –
the adventures of misfit dares –
through coughed up giggles
a toned nasality, not too loud
dying down to soft snorting,
your eyes, all the while, glinting
what cannot be told. I wonder,
the ache in my feet turning sharp,
distracted by the glowing silver
between your strands of white,
and lips perked in impish defiance
to laws for the girls governing
your days of time, of the nights
you gloat were spent illustrious
under starry roofs, keeping a man
bent on one knee, serenading
his heart out, whilst you amused  
the hours away bathing in praise.
I shift a foot to allow it a groan
as your meticulous eye overtly
disapproves the human erring
and I suck a long breath in,
my youth just breaking out,
resuming position. The planets,
I imagine, cause mayhem
like temperamental tempests
and be awed for raw displays,
be exalted for imperfections
bringing storms and solstices
stirring the mind of a man
without powders or perfumes,
gentle movements or coyness;
and here we are, you teaching
my mind and body
to lay still
of essence.