Exile
From a distance, topography is intent
as in, Where I am from is no more.
Blood is not a natural conclusion
to kinship despite theories and experiments
where red prefaces emotion. One thought
supplants the other in the sophistry of choice
(therefore, hunger is a project to fit
into the frame.) Grids in the caves
we build attest to an empire
of codes: plaster and cork keep us
afloat. Necessity deigns
the cessation of sound as nails
hold this house upright.
Cities with five-year plans
dream of purchase. Allotment
of success systemic with windows
glimpsing blue ocean or unmoving
mountain, a view, in other words.
No matter we are building
on sand. We begin with certitudes
when securing our spot.
We cannot forget
what we leave, arrival
allows discovery in increments.
In time, is promised, in sight.
An abattoir is not on the city tour because tourists
do not wish to see death. They surmise that being poor,
natives are naturally without longing. The poor are happy,
they observe from a distance. To remain silent is on occasion
to suffer. Again, it is the poor who gives to the divine
or to the idea anyway. We kill the water buffalo
and cows live to ransack vegetables out for sale.
The sage said, Young men will use you like the taxis
of this city. To live alone is your lot.
Monkeys swooped on flowers
laid out by women in sheathes of red.
Note: Dhompa's poems are reprinted with author's permission. © Apogee Press
