1.
yes.
tongue is another hand i have
to caress, write and grope through our hominan loves
utterances of streets, tea cups of unkind leaves, winding words
only to say the signs as one says them unbound
those signs that never betrayed us
even when my bi(lingual) fingers typed
names, a name, the names of all that we know and forget
kooli-keteki-kapou
or verbs that’ll walk alone without a care
aashi? or, aashi. we return (even come back). old.
yes.
2.
did they not say whistling was language too
the wind through your tongue
the lips in cohesion for the vowels to ejaculate
the sound free and homeless
but it’s love that makes us seek out false truths
like news of sounds traveling far and wide
sound that clusters in the tiffin shop in nacharam
where the men crowd around pictures
of garish women in glossy prints on the walls
they pour the chutney after the fingers touch the brine
and their own sweat or semen drying in the sun
you say seeds, i say words
all words we scatter in our minds
3.
i’ve never lived in a village but have
spoken the way they have
you(folks) go to pondside for a dump
they(folks) please to mind their bottoms from being pinched
we(folks) curl up sleep in our love-made sheets
who goes out? ties of the tongue, alone.
this is not a village but we all love slumber after rice
because in that village of my mother and other-mothers
everyone speaks as though we were grown in
like suffixes to be chewed out with paan
