Bull’s Eye Pregnant


Have you seen how eggs
Are arranged in a fridge?

It’s always in two lines when the one closest
Is sucked in by your fimbriae like fingers
And dropped on the frying pan.

And as the egg breaks
You see the white spreading
Like an amniotic ocean
And the golden yolk,
Afloat on top like a moon island
Squirming of life.

Love and Pregnancy


Everyone one of my friends has kids.
Some 2 and others 3.
Its almost always more than 1.
Like everyone wants
A company or crowd
But never a monocyclist
Or a string quartet.

And my wife and I, we plan
To bring one rug rat to the world.
Who will run circles around us,
And make our blue veins,
Surface like gorgonzola cheese,
And still give us 4 hours of uninterrupted
Sleep each night. And we will paint
Blue when the doctor looks at
An ultrasound and tells you
It’s a boy. My father will be happy
The Gunawardana name will gallop
On for one more generation.

And still we fear the one.
Would we over pamper him and make
Him into a selfish thorn or worse
A clown and crowd puller.
Perhaps he will be a bubble boy
Taking, like his father, 37 years to kiss a woman
Or maybe by the time he is 18
He would know the underside
Of a sanitary pad better than
The old man knows.

And life is about that challenge
When we know when to give in
And when to say no, when to spur him on
When to let him make his own decisions.
He will perhaps become a doctor
Who will spend his time ferrying babies out
Or perhaps he will become a playboy
Giving ammunition to the apple
That can fall far from the tree, or maybe
He will be as gay as a Mars bar
I mean, aren’t men from Mars?

And we will look at the wonderful
And not so wonderful things he would do.
Like climb Machu Pichu, impregnate his girlfriend,
Walk from tip to toe of Sri Lanka for charity
Or get a drunk-driving ticket. We will still
Love him, like when we did that day
When he climbed out of his little hiding spot
And made us the happiest parents on earth.

And love can only be colorblind, when
We will talk about the birds and the bees
And that sometimes, Adam is with Steve
And not Eve and that the greatest mysteries in life
Are only self-determined and sovereign.
Like why we live, laugh, love and finally surrender.
And there are no clear answers
To most questions in life

And looking at my wife bloated
Like an elephant in a circus, I can only feel
The love I have for her, when Elephantine
Would be an understatement.
And have you seen a child show with his arms
How much he loves mummy and daddy
And still we adults can never draw the magnitude
Or the shape of love. Perhaps it is as big as Jupiter.
Perhaps it is as perfect as the full moon.
Perhaps it is shaped like a mango
Perhaps we will never know.

Love can do no more
Than love beyond condition
And that needs no measurement or formula
It is the unenviable keystone
Between two beings. Love is just
That thing you do to transcend existence
When she holds you like a crab’s claw
A place you can never cede or lose
Holier than a pilgrim’s lair
The perfect anarchy of the storm
In your flesh, that summons you to the eye.
To look through and be capsized
To the secluded bliss
Of one Eden.

Marine Theology


They say marine creatures, like mollusks
Write their own scripts with ink, venom and milk.

Biological concoctions of peptides and indigo dyes.
And here life is all about the beautiful prey and her capture.

And we humans call the prey, a mystical gender,
A euphemism, “woman”, radiant and strongly nuclear

We make another euphemism “love” on tender surfaces.
Seeping heart-fluids through a funneling harpoon

A woman can be a tunicate on a rock, flowing and ebbing,
Her body beautifully sessile; the siphon, a little opening,

Taking the feed in. Love was spooned like an ounce of sugar
To a little shrine. The offering of a holy pilgrim.

Like an anchor melting inside of her, cast iron
Oozing out milky nickel, pristine and full of life

Love was an adoration to what was shrouded by a loin cloth.
Milking a little life was the almighty truth.

And now they will wait, for annunciation.



We don’t converse as we did before.
Perhaps the cycles in our vocal chords
Have run their lengthy revolutions. Maybe we
Bite our teeth more, clench them every time
We can’t seem to find a new topic.
Maybe we were those oranges, peeled
And squeezed, until all the juice was poured. ,

So what do we do now love?
Shall we reroute our conversations to “what may be”
The future tense explored like a seed
Describing every one of her branches, petals and fruits.

Maybe then we will collect our dreams in a basket
And go on picnics, to where we have never been before.
We will feed us grapes, knowing our ears are fond of them.
We will take avocados, and scrape the pulp.
We will do mushy Kleenex miles
Of how a bird and a bee, could make a little balloon, bloat.

The future holds our conversation
In the absence of yarn from our past. The kites
We can throw to the sky, hoping for God’s Blessings.
A little baby who will transform our
Jaundiced conversations to golden moments.
What will be defined by our unity, in what two bodies can galvanize
In chemical bonding, in unexplored orbitals,
Hitchhiking in each other’s dreams.

– Perhaps there will be an ample time
For some viticulture and vinification –

When a corked uterus,
With a mucus plug called the operculum
Will age inside a cellar. While we buy wine glasses of every shape
And size, too caught up in the fanciful.
And a choice of odds cheering our dreams on.

Pinot noir or chardonnay?
It’s all in the tannins. In the Xs and the Y.

In beautiful couplings of serendipity.

Unwed Mother


In the final chapter
Of her gestational saga
That begin with a glass of wine
A creature burrowed through lovers lane
Swam through tides of the amnion
To make a little excursion
To life

And in these vicissitudes
Of emotional collapse
And abstruse forbearance
Her heart learned to love beyond
Any residue of fallback hate

And as the umbilical cord
Was severed by a blade
A love-bridge spanned from eye to eye
To ferry a monument
Down a generational rift.



She looks at the mirror
The bikini bod that transformed
To a baby bump, a flesh bud budding
Inside an inland ocean
She knows that their love is meaningless
Unless an alibi resonates from their union
– The legacy of two hearts and one flesh –
Once they are no longer globetrotters
Just ashes on a bed of sediment

She scans with her fingers
The smoothest of her curves – and the raised navel button
As she caresses the palpitation within
Drowning her in a different kind of love
The type that will have gaze-chemistry
Love-biology and momentum-physics
As love pushes out what love pushed in
9 ½ months before…