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P
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e
m
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Maybe it come in the blood.

 

Poet child or Eastern labourer

in me love magic names

appellations to start spirits

abracadabras open sesames.

 

I know I know this Shakuntala.

But is wait I wait till

memory serve her genius up

conjurer with numbers

miracle accuracies

to the umpteenth degree.

 

I run here to set this down

set it down but the application

don’t open and I fraid to lose

this baby for them don’t hardly

catch in my belly no more.

 

I remember the little pikni

who run to his just-born sister:

“Tell me bout where

you come from. Tell me, quick!

Every day I forget a little more.”