Sowing in the Motherland (Which I Have Abandoned)
Floods are so common there that I was born with an ocean tattooed on my feet:
Excuse my drowning, I am shallow.
Scoured cicatrix of words not of my mother tongue and unknown to my mother, who had no childbearing hips, slips off my tongue- unbraiding pre-Raphaelite hair (a rip-off of sharp hay) honey-sealed (impassable for fingers), adorned in olive oil, collapses heavy on the lips – first ever lover's; This inexorable Tongue, a terrible gallop of echoes - a language unzips your chest: “Hey.” Rest. Like a vulture I seize the tongue wet with sighs in my mother tongue: Mother – boy, nurture the azure of my sangue. I hold it like I would hold a snake, this mouth-blade of bleached sighs and past goodbyes that moistened my thighs: I wrap it around my finger – your tongue, my umbilical cord - and I wed the past again. I hold the limb of you against my naval, then pull it by the head up - unzipping to debride. Inside: I am pink and gold. You fold the tongue against my lung. Sighs unfurl into the Type O Strawberry Blonde. Stop. You cannot breathe against my chest. Smoke the sugar of it all - You have finally consumed your past. It will choke you.