home is south
the air was stingin me out on that aangili veranda and with everything i breathed, out in the orphaned wild, i was surprised you didn't come running back to me through forests of spider-laden deadwood and roots that tangled your feet to stay.
the children in their bare brown-gold skin surround me like a beautiful bony cloud of lips and teeth and light we made a quilt for you while you were gone it covered the whole yard and brought banana leaves crashing to the damp earth when we shook it out.
it was in the colours of the sky that covered our childhood, the poppy red lipstick i made you wear and the summer gold of this eternal indian sun.
the children led me northward, woolen bag in hand, filling it with spiders on the way. at the river i felt you strong but never could find your footprints in the clay and the children say your name like you're cane on their tongues. narrow brown shoulders disappear under the flow and black hair tangles and shivers in the water, lon