the lost marble

news is, bad flooding in Sumatra; so i
put down my pen, examine my hands
and feel myself a chimpanzee that lost
its marble by these ten irresoluble things

compulsion as a typhoon turns its form
an eye that cannot hear; in filthy flux
a child clings to the minaret of a mosque
i have no word to turn it from its path

is every child the same across the globe
a digit hugging-to against the storm
inherent heart against the deafening blow
an act of curling tight to one held poem

so poet-magus turns her glass from one
true child to ten imaginary orphans just—
as here, as typhoon where, and whether i
was drowning in the sum of what they did

there was a marble somewhere in the mud
ten fingers prying ceaselessly for air
don’t let me be the word to cause a flood
don’t turn me like an eye without an ear

//

diptych
of survival
InsyaAllah

//

spice trade

you know we taste the weather of a word
or housewife by her sambal, like bitter salt
this kitchen hell and getting warmer, mad
desires to let out; adventuring to eat

a journey to her inward, fine-tuning cook
is converse travel whereby stirring builds
a tragic tongue to name her worldly khas
enchanting handfuls for like memory cast

seduction; spice trade, her nightly shedding veil
far-fishing season monger Sheherazade
queen turning by tantalized infinities
survivor storming mercy from the heat

//