In My Country

I say field
and you think heat

on your back,
or flood hugging

the throat of you
and crops

and coconuts falling
on a field.

Of course,
when I say country

and mine,
you might think yours

and snow and breeze
and hair –

but I mean
warmth unmoving.

Warmth
tucking itself

into itself
like a fever, people

in an endlessly
twirling tongue.

When I say home
I mean trap.

I mean a province
and a farmer

and the growth
of Abaca in a field.

When we say together
we mean knots.

Several and unseverable
knots. When we say move

we mean water
and postage.

People who know us
accuse us

of avoiding
the word love.

How I love you
in our language

always sounds
like an argument.

How we have no phrase
for I’m coming.

But when I say public
transport I mean eyes

at each other and hands
and words spoken

in unnecessary places.
Like sorry.

Like move.
Like look at that bird,

and then into my eyes.
We try to tell things

and we try not to.
You can’t learn subtlety

in our language.
We don’t speak it.

4 thoughts on “In My Country

    1. Hey, thank you! I checked your blog out just to make sure you’re not just some extremely supportive relative.

      But really, I appreciate the comment. 😀

      Like

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