Poem: The Sacredness of Fucking

1.15 PM. February 8, 1965.

A boy and a girl, unmindful of the sun,

Sought some private moments on

A lonely pier stretching into the Arabian Sea.

An entwining of limbs, heavy breathing, a cry

And millions of enterprising sperms were swimming

Upstream in a mixture of viscous fluids.

Some minutes or hours later,

A hard-working little fellow

Impregnated a singularly fortunate egg

And I came into existence.

From being a nothing, a nobody,

I became a somebody.

The rest of those millions of sperms…

Each of whom could equally have become

A little boy or a girl

Were doomed at this exalted moment

To be flushed down the drains

With so much urine.

So were these sacred moments or profane ones?

Moments of creation or destruction?

Were they beautiful or ugly?

Were they sublime or smelly?

Did my dad talk dirty?

Did mom's cries of pleasure
Disturb the sea gulls
Or cause an unseen fisherman to hurry
To meet his own beloved?

To those moments on that February afternoon --

That the two people I respect the most

Celebrated with love,
With lust, with vulgarity –

I owe my current existence.

Then how can I not regard

Two people fucking

As utterly beautiful and sacred?

How can I not believe that

Profanity is sacredness
In a worldly mask?

How can I not believe that

Our lustful fantasies are

Prayers that arouse the senses

And celebrate creation?