Wednesday, June 10, 2020


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 

I'm no prude

but I too have these lapses 
where I talk a streak, 

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

the mother tongue.