Flamingo Dance
Tundra
Every
time my mother
climbs up the stairs
wonders about
her mobile phone or
her English note,
I want to pull
her branches down,
sit her on the floor,
fan her gold-
bronzed fire,
nail her
warmth
on the tundra
of my body-map.
A Leaf
My
father shivers with
the chill, he’s past autumn,
brown
and brittle,
swaying
in the wind.
His
routines stem him
to
the branch, memories
plough
dry through him, they’ve
lost
their green and succulence.
He
pushes the pen,
ruffles
his feathers,
wavers
in the crisp
evening
air, which
came
all too suddenly.
He
doesn’t fight anymore,
he has written his story of loss
on
his crumbled, body-leaf.
He
hopes earth would read
it loud to the wind, picking
it feather by feather, tossing
up rot and loss , for all
the winging birds to
hear.