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.
Aubade with Regular Adornments
Tuesday, June 15, 2021
Tuesday, June 15, 2021