bliss station ~ poetry

what I share with myself

english is mine too
though I was not born speaking it
but then who did

my mother's tongue
spared it inside the house
my father couldn't
climb ranks as fast
because of improper english -

macaulay's minute
has will lasted last
centuries of scar -

but I ~ i ~ but I
see language as a rosary
of sounds, a field of grammar cannoning words & thoughts
to what they may mean.

I don't care about the politics
dripping from its trajectory, only
how it reached the point
where we intersect & where
it may be going & where
it may be taking me.

but then
we only meet
in a shared feeling
riding similar sounds.

I wear jeans, the renaissance
the alphabets, the abugidas
are mine, I belong, in parts
to parts of the world.
I am a dollop of the earth
I am.

the east, the west, mine
but I inherit their horrors also.

is this acceptance betrayal
but who dare make
my allegiance for me.

in this tangle of roots
I plant identity & watch it grow
listen to the budding words waiting for sound like kids queuing before a slide, before I bloom as water & wash everything with equal life.

~Ajay
2/4/2020