Late,

An Experiment on Rhyme.

He’s always late,

So you controlled what you ate,

Shrunk to a svelte figure 8,

He’s always late,

Except to pulsate

Over you to procreate,

Pure pleasure, but I insinuate

It’s not so with Miss Kate.

I disassociate, but never interrogate

Why, he’s always late

For dinner, so I masticate,

Each bite, I inebriate,

To slightly sedate,

And deeply contemplate,

Really deliberate,

Our first date.

Before this hate,

It had happened late

In London, at the Tate,

One man can completely change a Fate,

And of course, it went great.

Then it got really late,

In the dark, where I gyrate

Myself onto this stranger. “Jailbait,”

He used to call me. We initiate

Our love, so very delicate,

I lay still, hoping to satiate,

Ingratiate, and he was never, ever late.

The morning after, I meditate

The love we consummate:

You’d tenderly delineate

Your touch too intricate,

And intimate to terminate.

That night desire did germinate,

Making blood coagulate,

Each kiss did reverberate,

Rang on into our second date,

You were far too elaborate.

Always raised my heartrate,

Made me pitter-palpitate,

When you’d push and palpate,

Scared you’d break me into particulate

Shards. Immaculate,

Sacred glass jar is what you’d manipulate

That spring I was to matriculate,

You wanted me to consecrate

Vows, wow — a cross child who couldn’t concentrate,

With a man who cannot elucidate,

Who will truly innovate,

With each sun and day, the latest way to desecrate

Those promises and enervate

Me, I hate,

That you would regurgitate

Your wretched life history into my illiterate

Blank slate, I once more will reiterate

My plea: red do regulate?

We both are so very late;

I evaporate

As bloody birthwaters precipitate,

Baptising a child that’s not me,

Repatriate my power, ochre autonomy.

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All Rights Reserved.

Kira Mungai, 2022