peeled completely of its sweetness.

in this endless blue mass of words, my mother morphs

into a body of bricks and bones - a home where my buttocks don’t flinch before wearing the skin of a toilet seat,

where windows are also doors & ginger and honey tea is one of its many metaphors.

i want to carve stories about how her radio can swallow voids & morph into one, itself.

yesterday, i also sat in the company of some elements, vessels that have balanced the ironies in me and adorned

their skin with it.

i listened to a slow song too, & had a conversation with these boys in my head.

in this poem, if you ask me what my roots think of me, i

would only ask you to trace the dried tracks of tears of my mother’s face.