There are mornings
when that wild flutter
of breeze
which ruins the most delicate flowers
defines for me
the whole situation—
I shudder to think
of my humblest requests
being rejected,
of such beauty hinging
on such finitude.
I want to say
to the bluster—
do your worst
and
I'm no prude—
where I talk a streak,
black-and-blue,
but I'm not sure
what I'm asking.
It's like I become my own
colonial power
and my body
no longer understands—
let alone
respects
the mother tongue.
