accents mark me

like a childhood scar

a secret birthmark

the mole three finger spaces from my left eye –

the very same I use to trace the sky,

the stars, and a stranger’s lie,

do you name your nature’s wealth?

or does it only have meaning in sickness and in health?

my feet drip, watering flowers,

my head dips in the lemony scent of breeze

sandy dust caught in braids and sneeze

showering the gravel

soft and padded with yesterday’s rain.

I feel the waves pass by and

shake me: violent, endearing and subdued,

all kinds of shades, shapes and shores

do you name water?

or does it only have meaning in drinks and sinks?

I hold the strings to my heart.

It is but a puppet, listless with genes,

furiously beating me into being –

I am tourist of my own skin.

Clouded in the vestiges of freedom,

how am I supposed to wear them

how am I supposed to pretend I like them – it – her? – him? –

do you name your skin?

or does it only have meaning in retrospect and poetry?