On our way there, there wasn’t much to see.
The sea bid farewell to the bow
but the sea is, and was then, feminine,
and so judged us as what is called the unyielding matron
She showed us
Vinyl rotting, melting to will
Fakri’s famine curtsying to the mist of vaseline
Premier shondesh stuffed into mouths
Or into homes in takeout containers
Flyovers splintering into blockades
Into ignitions at starting pistol
And sparkling water at checkered flag
We are entertained.
And wake up stranded in low tide.
Feet gassed in mud
Feuding with the cataract of the tube well,
Dodging cow dung,
An expedition of tents to curry amends
For we have sinned
And Fridays were not enough.
Only the Earth forgives:
Conifers unfurl like corollas
Soft shell grabs are admired,
And fade pink in the pot;
Turtles lay eggs at midnights
Marshalled by our flashlights;
Combing the stretch of beach
Exoskeletons for the wife to hang around her neck.
This milad is interrupted,
Tourists are also journalists
In the south.
Villagers run errands on pocket change
And with the kids watching,
We burn ourselves on the twenty second loosie:
Don’t they go to school?
And they tell you about the textbooks and the teachers and the students and the four dogs on the island and the soil that is estranged family and the dialect, the dialect, the unsent wedding invitation like you are the district commissioner.
And you do not correct them.
But they were not ready.
Life, and hope better life.
I know how you feel.
But the way you feel about it will not create jobs.