On sister’s birthday, to Sana
Little wheel-like things crisscross
on city midnights, and
where I coil this
nothing tracks down to you.
In fifteen years
I have not pinched orange skin,
snarled at by an amnesiac cat, or hid
between parents’ quilts.
It’s permanent to have you
traffic-spotting behind that green gate,
your small head next to mother’s waist
in holly patterns on the kitchen wall,
still clay-parrots on the windowsill
a blink away before you sleep,
on an unexpected rainy afternoon,
for healthiness, I confused
a bitter pill into your mouth:
at the mouth of thinkings gallery
not all hours are full of fears.
Where I coil this,
frayed white sleeve-edges scuff
distinct hair on my wrists,
like hasty men of conurbations
brush faces on local trains,
a camouflage of time in my bedroom,
every day of this year, sheds skin:
my other half is a condensery of lost language,
consisting of you.
(Nov 5 – Nov 8, 2009)