O what does the burning mouth
Of sun, burning in today's,
Sky, remind me….oh, yes, his
Mouth, and….his limbs like pale and
Carnivorous plants reaching
out for me, and the sad lie
of my unending lust.
Where is room, excuse or even
Need for love, for, isn't each
Embrace a complete thing a finished
Jigsaw, when mouth on mouth, I lie,
Ignoring my poor moody mind
While pleasure, with deliberate gaiety
Trumpets harshly into the silence of
the room… At noon
I watch the sleek crows flying
Like poison on wings-and at
Night, from behind the Burdwan
Road, the corpse-bearers cry ‘Bol,
Hari Bol' , a strange lacing
For moonless nights, while I walk
The verandah sleepless, a
Million questions awake in
Me, and all about him, and
This skin-communicated
Thing that I dare not yet in
His presence call our love.

In love, what takes place, how to say it? Love is not love as we feel it. Love is but philosophical. Love is a thing to be felt. It has not just the physical side, but the spiritual side too.

What we take it to be our own is not ours in reality. The lovers are not lovers and if they are, they are for the time being. The ultimate reality is the all that we know it not.

The sun is burning hot and it is humid. But the skies so wide and spread over with the azure lifting the mind and making it dream of the mouth seemingly to be closer to for amorous pranks. What to do if it seems to be approaching? Bodily attachment and closeness is it all that all we hanker after. The bodies held in clasps with hugs, embraces and kisses, how to forget them, the moments of close contact and cuddling? Siestas seem to be calling. 

What a jigsaw is it the mouth on the mouth, the lips on the lips and quivering souls losing in a mystic communion, confiding in and silence seems to be in conspiracy with letting it happen for never to be parted with. But bewitching silence cannot let it go.

The sleek crows flying keeps it telling differently just like the old thrush of Hardy marking the century end. The day changes it into the noonday and thereafter the night comes in. But the spirit in the lover knows it not that her lust is quite unending. It can never be quenched, the thirst can never satisfy. Human thirst will remain it thirst for ever. Something will definitely break the silence as she hears the people taking the body away for to be cremated during the night time and it breaks the lull of silence with a pall hanging over.

Though she feels it that the body is not mine, instead of it she dare not tell the lover why his affection for the body so much, why he wants it so much. What is this lust for the skin?

The woman in her questions the validity of marriage. What it the base of relationship?

A woman's heart, a woman's love, how to feel it, take to it for a narration? How the drama of love? How the characters? If the beloved is a confessional persona, how will it be the things? 

In Love is an autobiographical piece, a biographical read as well as a feministic stance of a confessional and controversial poetess like that of Kamala Das. Here she discusses it what is it love, how the feministic heart pulsating, beating it. How the convulsions met in love? 

So many questions rake up the mind. But how to make love understand that this body is of bones and clay? There is nothing in the skeleton.

She has the quality of coming down to the spiritual from the physical and this is but a feature of metaphysical love poetry which can be marked in Krishnaprem, Krishnalila and Raaslila. Is John Donne’s poetry not so? Andrew Marvell’s?

Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
                        –– John Donne in The Sun Rising