I.
I come into this world on a pair of earrings—a coil of light
on her spined ear—hoopoe birthmark at her nape
sifting the heft of the dhow—through her hair
she wears the heaviest bells——ears cupped in shell weather
she knows the price of a ticket across
the black waters is not possible——— bismillah
is another way—of asking and of breaking—money
earrings the sum of her village on her body—given
to the boatman
whose other name is——-description
as I see it—after the monsoon
the sun breaking—- its medallion her face
II.
the way I have into the unwritten is always
already taking home
in mouths that are not mine
when I look up and ask a sieve of stars
to let me face her please let me speak for my blood
my lips fester for three months—I forsake
ornament and colour—I ask the Internet
“lip sores still crusting—skin around mouth peeling”
two more months pass— I ask
“lips turning black”
but those are not questions
III.
when your body is deprived of water
the skull begins to soften and sink
with your eyes—your heart will find
it difficult—to pump blood because
blood becomes thicker without water
and we know what happens
to the lips—to the mouth—furred dark it begins
to ask questions
when you send me a link
to your childhood home—my screen
all tall grass and brambles tumbling
onto the road—I click on the road
scroll further and further as if I am hoping for a person
to appear—and you say “what are you doing?”
not remembering my geography
I say—“where is the ocean?”
and the corner of my mouth bleeds
IV.
you can’t argue with blood—but I have
argued with you—sifting your dream
into my cup—dipping biscuits in tea
until they dissolve like rotten seed
you remember me this way—yearning—
to unmake myself—to make an offering
to you— or the unnameable—I wake to cook
then I refuse—a plate feasting on entropy
disagrees with me—pomegranate lattice
the doily she could never buy—how can I
partake in symbol and ritual—as gate
when you left our country—hungry
thirsty——–dragging the thick teak door
behind you—all the way to the shore
knuckles skinned—moon-bones winking?
V.
I have threaded a needle seven times through
each earlobe—to stay the jewel—but my flesh
eclipses the spoke—begs to close—each time I count
all the homes I have tried—one elsewhere
two elsewhere—three elsewhere—–four
I have become so used to leaving— I forgot
that in kneeling—you came to me
tending the weed—facing the Qibla
taught me to call it—a cuticle—an artery
a loom of breath—so that when I write “thistle”
it greens—all around my house where there had been
rocks——-“you have planted something”—my landlord
insists—if I planted anything—how could I say
in the beginning it was your name—that found me
rooted in the mouth—flower chant—showing me how
the tambourine speech of leaves can mean
because this is what it is to be—–the beat of your sun
the soles of my feet—to be beautiful—to live
beyond survival—into life as ornament and –
