• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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On days when the wind
Plays with the pine trees and even
The wasps huddle in their paper nests
Built under the eaves
I close my eyes
My forget-me-not blue eyes.

I picture the birth-land of my mother
As I have seen it in sepia family photos
Or in the distorted memories
Of my one-year-old self.

It is a land
Where women wear six yards of
Every color save blue because
Blue is reserved for
The sky and
The tiles of religion.

It is a land
Where men massage their hair
With coconut oil and
Slice mangoes with the expertise
Their wives apply to make-up.

When I open my eyes
I am on my mountain
Where the pine trees play with the wind
Where women wear blue and
Men carry shotguns
To defend their altars from strangers.



I am an alien
In this country
Yet I declare myself home.