Home is where we try to get Government jobs
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.