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.”