how often should I sashay in this sackcloth, the sky’s
undone hem of silver, the country that claims me?
every day I am a fugitive traveling on the ship of mother’s
countenance. I stretch towards the emptiness of her eyes,
the sun-stroked cabin of her wordlessness. the needles
of her grief made bare & vulnerable. her face, a gentle breeze
that exposes the rots. a shipwreck. I keep a sparrow
under my tongue. I am a shepherd for anything
licked by sorrow. nothing to spare. here: the wildflowers
of youth, the fuchsia adornments. the swaying field
that has its leaves gored with a touch. I am a haven
of mundane things. a worship. a god with armours.
my body is not a home, but a knife laid to rest.
my father once appeared like a river gliding towards
my disappearing. and I watched my mother,
in the saddest of her days sheath her afflictions.
of brutal endings, my idea of rebirth. my name
cloaked in ashes. the hum of vain words.
I array my ghost, a poem about distance. the loitering.
the sculpture of prayers on my lips, the land of broken things.
the night climbing the fence of my face to stay longer.