I remember an afternoon back home,
when mama would send us to sleep
so that our awkward little limbs
may grow into pretty branches;
our hair into waves of silk;
our milk teeth into ivories
that shall launch ships
and disarray planets.
In such afternoons, we dream,
but instead, we stay awake
to tiptoe into exit – her snoring,
a comfort that our secret is safe
in the garden we grew
with care and incantations.
What joy it was, alas,
to find a tiny stalk
propped against dirt,
greener than crayon,
and refreshing than sleep, we thought.
By end of summer,
we shall have grown shrubs
to carpet earth,
and bury our secret letters forever.
And what else could we raise?
Trees? Forests? Nations?
For we have called forth earthworms,
we might as well congregate
birds whose wings
might lift us into flight,
so that in afternoons away from school,
we could glide over seas
and hover above formations
over and over in an infinite reverie,
kept alive by the smell of
earth – messy, itchy
against our stubborn hands.
We did not grow to be queens,
and the planets stay aligned.
Had we slept,
we could have been beauties -
straight and tall and perfect-skinned
Don’t worry, sister.
Asymmetry is us,
In a world of smoke dusts
We keep the piercing heat in memory,
the smell of flesh that mingled
with dirt, in the same hope
of burying secret letters,
and finding truth.
