They say that the rotation of a turquoise planet
Makes wispy movements on ponds
On bathroom bowls, forces tornados
And relays cyclones and other ballets of nature
And we too know, how we make
Rotation part of our daily anatomies.
How we rotate the stem of a ripe mango
To pluck it, how we plunge a corkscrew
To open a vintage wine, or how Shane Warne
Spins the leg break to bamboozle batsmen.
And still we are slaves of spins
Of how a little magnetism around a radius
Makes us fall in love. And yet we are consumed
By another’s orbitals – where are we now?,
Where to next?, is she procrastinating?, will we work
In the long run?, is she a hurricane and a banshee in bed?
Oh God, is she wife-material?.
We pirouette to another’s orbitals.
What keeps us hostage, the gyres that stream us
The vortices that baffle us, the vertigos that giddy us
The whirlpools that sink us. All stemming from one creature’s
Orbitals of the heart and mind.
Yet we have our own helices that define us.
The DNA of a man that can see past the doubt
To make it work. How we can resonate
Are spins, like figure skaters do, or how your hands
Master the pottery wheel, knowing deep
Down that what matters is not the orbitals
But the ground states.
And we are grounded to those baffling genes.
What makes me a romantic and her a realist.
And when we meet in the middle
We know that there’s another planet
That we need to inhabit. Like Mars and Venus
Need earth for a rendez-vous.
We are imperfect humans. Perfect freaks
Who overthink everything we do. When love is
Just about finding a common torque, to spin.
And making love is absenting your spins; becoming nonsensical,
Folly dancing all over, while trade winds blow.
As you become one singularity, one flesh,
At the equator.