Ma, you cannot brush anymore
my hair is long
ing for some kind of cutoff
from stretching shore to shore
How are you ma?
didn’t get enough time
to see the world before I came along
You barely touched GPS on your way to the night market, before my words touched your tongue
Mother I can’t teach you the necessity, sometimes, of cruisin these waters in disguise
My face ships in a foreign choreo, streamlined. We use morse code here, for efficiency
My therapist asked if I could give you what you want now.
For me to be happy.
No I don’t.
For beauty pain and comedy to walk this tightrope.
These big words, you say.
A simple thing it looks but it is anything but simple
The ropes are crisscrossed in a net, a dome and fence
You have lived in a few jetties and some paces. I journey away from you.
I go so far “you almost broke the spinning bike today at the gym, ”
the old man next to me said. Why else would I be here?
Not to find my next Djinn, next to you
Carry you like I did when I was 5.
If there was ever a storm we will hold each other tightly.
Marooned in golden mornings, green at family brunches, not mine
I wish you were in one of the glasses here
I dream of banquets. I am hungry for stories where we are both in it.
Ma, I began to worry that I won’t recognize you in the airport
that you wither away like ghosts in a haunted house, who can’t even smell her own blood.
I water you, ma, before I got to sleep
Every morning, the words you sew bloom to my wig of the day.
This is how you stay evergreen.