Though I too live in a blur of worlds, I am one
shade of brown: my blood not as obviously mixed.
Who gave me this nose? I have no dimples. I have a brow
broad as a page. The eyes tell when I am smiling.
And eyebrows constitute a language of their own. Never
asleep, they are two republics separated by a bridge.
Do you know the power of discarded fishbones?
I know delight can interchange with dilate.
I’ve strung the dried stumps of my daughters’ birth
cords on a safety pin; this is one way I keep them close.
Do you know the sound the tin bucket makes, the shape
of its mouth as it looks at the sky from inside the well?
In the bird house made from hollowed-out wood: wasps
coming and going. They are not angry yet, only nesting.
The ginger flower’s torch burns with scent in the middle
of the garden. Not even the rain can put it out.