I step out of my skin, my gender,
my place-names, leave them in a pile
on the bathroom floor. The new language slides
like an egg-yolk down my throat.
At dusk three shoeless boys kick a ball
of plastic bags tied together by twine.
My world is made by thatched huts
that stand up and walk on feet of their own.
Some things follow me across borders:
love, honey-thick, insecurity.
If I choose any direction and walk
for long enough, I’ll find the sea.
There are other kettles to boil,
leaves and soil and the hand-written
placards of a revolution.
In a dusty town, the youngest
of three brothers flies a kite,
rolls spool after spool of footprints
onto the roof of the sky.