i carry my mirror self like the gift it is —
fragile in its limbs, soft beyond reparation,
beyond repair. beneath his oblong face, pack
of honed molars suppressing a psalm of hope.
on the hill of his desires sits a boy at the bed
of a river, tossing pebbles across, bobbing
as bubbles ripple the surface of the water.
he marvels at the fishlings playing hide and seek,
content in their daily routine of submersion
and floating. on an ankara fabric by his side
sits a harmonica, scratched everywhere the boy
has held it, pressed grace into its holes. the boy
lugs the harmonica wherever the caw in his heart
yearns for verdure. double entendre of performance.
in the house, against the backdrop of a peeling wall,
of scullery collecting dripping water from the sink,
of a rambunctious living room falling apart under
his mother’s commands, the boy practices
on his recorder. his kid sister perches on a stool
and watches. mouth of marvel. outside the window,
a bunch of flies buzzing against the window net,
persistent in their return. minor act of rebellion.
this, a decade long before the boy, shedding the lucent
naivete of childhood, descends the hill of his soul.
before the boy learns to query the politics of sound
the duality of a harmonica’s high-strung note —
of nuptial knots and internment bawls. sour bliss.