Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The erstwhile poet sat on a fan plane
The hairy arm beside that of a Mallu, male
While I was away I was safe, don't know what white or black arms could do to my sternum
But this blob of flesh beside me could rip and pour his filth into me
I know, I have lain beneath him.
Home is where you burn your own bed.
No one changes sheets or makes beds,
No invisible fair maid-en immigrant,
I've brought new unrequiteds home.
The white man knows how to sucker punch your soul
Home is not stress timed language
Here what you write is what you speak
This is an agglutinated tongue, run on words that spell
Love in fearless fury, not hiding behind metaphors inane
Where you don't let someone within your enclosures
If you don't mean it,
Where aunts four feet tall will smell your hair
And that's the kiss of ancestry
And they cry because they spot the cynical brother,late
In your niece's smile
And see the rotting rope that would hold her breath
For the last time
But that's years from now.
Where my last surviving blood has nightmares
Every dawn when his four-year-old sun shines and reminds
Him of the lil sis outside, drenched,in rain, always.
Home is where honour kills.
And breaks your womb with doors thrown open
Where push is powerless,
Where Sundays mean exams public,
crunching numbers, difference between
interests compound and simple for a sum
after two years, at the same rate,
I get lost in the fourth root of pi.
And never made it as a lefty.
Home is where I am not a poet.
It is the natural law
It will happen
Girls will be married off
Because they have to naturally marry.
When he stepped in
poltergeists of shouldn't haves tore my muslin membranes of discretion.
Meant walking away,
closing the door click shut, quiet
the little trap door of vermilion skin slipping
slithering, the being inside
can't make up her mind.
What women want is simple
acknowledgement of hysteria as legit.
Because paranoia is when
the drop of water, sliding crystal ball of twinkle lights and sparkling clear
on smooth brown skin
feels like the circuitous invasion of snails.
They leave indelible tracks that cannot be bleached sterile.
My hand doesn't write as fast as my naturally female emotional thoughts
when my pencil loses the second syllable.
This is my desire for erasability
Not the wash-offability of ink
the fake glee of royal blue
the little glue
of a smile that keeps humanity together.
When he slipped in yesterday
I pretended like I wanted nipple-twisting
Cracking, uncraving open fissures ka ching!
The swirl in the toilet bowl is not his
this thing I try so had to retrieve and eject
the thing naturally racing to break the eggshell
tadpoles swimming in yolk red.