Birthing Of A Homeland
Birthing Of A Homeland


We yelled
~ s t r a w b e r r i e s ~
on mango streets
and traded siren songs
for bottled up
roselets of night-fields.
And I might have glued some
to your chest,
just to see
if a crayon finger
could come across
some missed lands
that crumpled
into hummingbird clouds
as if our own rain
strummed
newborn streams
and staked it for
stale myrtles.
But through it all,
you slept in the post-scripts
of gazelle eyes
after digging kilo
metres
of empty poems
awashed in moth paint
or madness,
and asked me to
~ b r e a t h e ~
but I had breathed all my life,
and somehow I knew
you had belonged to my cities
forever
and a minute.
So had I put
a stammering canvas
to use
and sewn a
a hyperbolic memory
of naked feet
yelping cardamom seeds,
the brushes would have
churned their oceans
on a black hole's tips
and bargained it all
to resurrect a
~ h o m e l a n d. ~