Entry tags:
A Visitor in My Own City
take the masking tape and mark off
everything you dont want touched
i'll sign the form in triplicate.
Please do not forget the official stamp.
if my mouth is closed i cant swallow my pride,
i know its not the dish you meant to serve me.
How can i begin to explain, with eyes with teeth,
all the ordinary things which can devour you,
all the moments where i hide,
behind the blackout blinds and the radio silences,
the small wars which cast long shadows over time.
How can i begin to explain, tracing the lines of your hand,
that i do not have the words, do not know the language,
my syntax, my structure
all foreign
and this concept, those concerns
more alien still.
I am an emigre, i am a stowaway.
my second language, my third,
the languages we learn as children stay with us the longest,
and the cyphers and codes i learned along the way
are set as shards inflecting and reflecting my pain.
i am harried by my silences, by the places
i cannot go - can no longer go, by words i dare not speak,
by rules i fear to break - though i feel i may have once known them all,
and the truces signed with care and bone
- the parchment of your skin the calligraphy of your hair.
i know but cannot express - locked tight against my heart and head.
the sign on the wall, torn and faded
is it a warning, is it an invitation?
everything you dont want touched
i'll sign the form in triplicate.
Please do not forget the official stamp.
if my mouth is closed i cant swallow my pride,
i know its not the dish you meant to serve me.
How can i begin to explain, with eyes with teeth,
all the ordinary things which can devour you,
all the moments where i hide,
behind the blackout blinds and the radio silences,
the small wars which cast long shadows over time.
How can i begin to explain, tracing the lines of your hand,
that i do not have the words, do not know the language,
my syntax, my structure
all foreign
and this concept, those concerns
more alien still.
I am an emigre, i am a stowaway.
my second language, my third,
the languages we learn as children stay with us the longest,
and the cyphers and codes i learned along the way
are set as shards inflecting and reflecting my pain.
i am harried by my silences, by the places
i cannot go - can no longer go, by words i dare not speak,
by rules i fear to break - though i feel i may have once known them all,
and the truces signed with care and bone
- the parchment of your skin the calligraphy of your hair.
i know but cannot express - locked tight against my heart and head.
the sign on the wall, torn and faded
is it a warning, is it an invitation?