Kamala Getting Ready For Love

When I first glanced you, Siddhartha,
dirty and ragged, you unkempt beggar,
at the entrance to my grove,
I thought of nothing.
I was looking at nothing
but the space you took up
on the ground near my gate.

But when you spoke to me of thinking,
and waiting, and fasting,
I fell in love with the sound of song in your voice
and was enchanted by the misty calm of your gaze.

You called me teacher
and I must now prepare
to fulfill my contract
you’ve sealed with one kiss.

This cool breeze of afternoon
turning to eve
soothes the heat
coming up in my spirit body
and I ask my servants
to oil my skin with musky fragrance
so that you might never forget me.

I pray, Siddhartha, the good fortune of my beauty might bless you,
anoint you as you enter the garden of my skillful arms
and slumber in my generous bed.
I am the priestess
who must share the sacred texts of flesh
and introduce you to this kind of love.

My fingertips are moist with perfume
I will place at your temples,
glide from fleshy lobes
across the tendons of your throat
to shoulder blades and gather lightly
at the small of your strong back.