KF (7/23/85 / Minnesota)


I can't imagine dying in this land.
The neighbours here have doors graffiti-red
‘Why are you brown? ' another pupil asked
‘I think because my folks are brown, ' I said

Out on our landing, someone's dumped a bed
I dream in Hindi. I don't understand
The baby words in English in my school book
At games, or dancing, no one takes my hand

I miss the smells of curry, frangipani,
The steaming chai at Delhi's teeming stalls
The cooking fires. I even miss the sewers
The thieving monkeys with their chattering calls

I miss the temple incense, the bright saris
In this new country, ma wears layers of coats
I miss the beggars, hawkers, the snake charmers
The rickshaws and the tattered rupee notes

You won't have seen a cripple on a skateboard
Or a blind boy, with both his eyes gouged out
That's what it feels to leave behind your country
A picture with the best bits scissored out

User Rating: 4,7 / 5 ( 14 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

I am in awe of the way that you write Kate. Your themes seem to be around the same issues (childhood) but the way that you have laid out your pieces is very much impressive and exposes a great confidence. Wonderful work I look forward to more in the future. I hope you will take as much care in writing them as you seem to have done with the three pieces you have posted so far.