For a long time a poem has been circling in my mind, a dazed rotation, now clockwise, now counterclockwise, words swirling everywhere. My journal has so many phrases — unattached, but somehow connected, coming together in a haphazard arrangement, like one of Jackson Pollock’s pieces.
Mosaic
There is a mosaic
Trapped in my words.
When I speak of
Small, dark alleys
And graveyards
That smell of burning incense
And have scatters of rose-petals,
You see only a thin sliver
Of this montage.
These eyes saw locusts
And loose sheaths of
Ruined crop
Carried by heavy summer winds.
And they saw oceans
Dark, brooding, terrifying oceans
Running and receding.
Faces appeared,
Whirlpools within the waters
And disappeared,
Lost to the depths
That embrace all,
Swallow memories whole.
I speak of places
With love and disease,
And strangers who share
Coffee, music,
Some money to buy
New strings of an old guitar;
A bed,
Rickety and unmade
With mosquito netting,
And a lazily burning lantern;
A little laughter
And some tears;
A day old pizza in a cardboard box,
Refried beans in a can,
Cheap hotel rooms
With buzzing air conditioners
And showers that spew hot water;
Houses with blackouts,
And hand-pumps in front yards,
Henna covered virgin hands,
Kohl-rimmed, downcast eyes,
And conch bangles jingling,
Pictures of innocence -
Lost and bartered,
Sold cheaply.
Trapped in this unfortunate
Collage of my words,
Is a rigid mosaic
Of regions,
And people,
And memories.
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