Beyond the capricious workings

of fate of a son born first, he pacifies

the earth of birth-in-progress.

 

Beyond the contumacious ills of

culture routines, he’s a doco on

the workings of a boy-in-progress.

 

Born before the birth of your birth

at Room18, third floor, Korle-Bu

your face pops-up like a mythic

tableaux, on your coming, out of

your mother’s pouch, as a marsupial.

 

Thunder sparkles from the onset

Relatively spices the heart with bile

 before the beginning & end, afterwards:

time fades into the zoom of tenebrous.

beatific gifts of arms decorates the baby,

 

Tunes of baby songs rapture the

room & brubru shrike sings from the

Rooftop. three years of backlog of stunted growth

the neighbourhood jeers at: unspeakable

mouth, words wolfed down by living dwarfs,

 up the mountain, blanketed by shrubs.

 

The habitués of a frying home, the cooking pot

Reddens, bathes the unspoken son.

He’s hot & we’re cold. When shall language be

thrown into his mouth?

 

A cabal of priests swells up our home one day,

In vain to uproot the clot of words

Lumped up in his throat.

Scored Zero.

Son’s feet ply the square of

The room as square root of two, & the four corners

Raced about in guarded roaming.

 

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