because their tongues

             were hanging lopsided 

like an invitation. and 

             even God’s work tries to hide 

its roots below the ground.

             because I was only sheepish, 

cowering near their circle, 

             watching the seagirls, yearning 

to puncture a mirror, watching 

             the waves stroke themselves, 

waiting for the tide, 

             for it to throw up an alphabet. 

because it is easier 

             to brush off than to scrape. home 

is a reluctant blessing, and 

             my back will turn on it, turning 

on the taste, spit at it— 

             like a home for phlegm, all while 

grinding my teeth 

             against pale molasses. I listen to 

the sound of railways birthed 

             from their throats, meekly 

roll skin fissures into slurs 

             in mock revenge. because 

my camouflage comes loose 

             with kinship absorbing the façade. 

I chew an airport to a pulp, 

             falling mute when asked which one. 

because I have often 

             pulled a hearty laugh from 

my lung, like we’re back 

             at the train tracks, the coolie-station 

or beside the fish-butcher, 

             as he pushes a knife into bones… 

they watch it like theatre: 

             as I struggle against conscience 

to hide the face of a bridge.