After my third shot of tequila / chased by a lime sour as my rant: fuck this-fuck that-fuck them-fuck me-fuck it all / you slashed me / same as your poems’ slashes / slash me / when you asked me: so, why the fuck don’t you ever say it in your poems / I took another shot but couldn’t shoot out a reason / until now, Jan / you’re right, so / fuck \  that my poems never shut out strangers’ glassy-eyedguh’mornins / fuck their mumbles wishing mea wonderful day / on not-so-wonder-filled days / fuckmy naïve belief that their mouths and minehave a heart / fuck my similes that choose to biteinto pleasantries like / buttered breadfor me to taste all day / a lifetime, Jan / fuck \

that I can’t hate kids / that my poems lovethe screeches of their awe-filled eyes / that I wantto see whatever it is they see / butterfly spotsas tigers’ eyes winking / moss-skinned stonesas emeralds / snowflakes falling as frozenstars / palm trees as flagpoles fluttering peace, Jan / fuck \

that my lines don’t lose their patience withold folks at check-out lines / double-checking the priceof every fucking item / that my poems don’t have eyesto roll at their yesteryear chatter / Can you believe the costof living today? / fuck that I listen to them / seetheir wrinkled eyes as maps / roadsI trace toward my own dead end, Jan / fuck \

my mother who’s eighty-six / fuck that I can’t curseat her / for never reading the poemsI’ve written, aching / for her to sweep awaythe ashes / of the Cuban homeland she choseto lose / fuck that I can’t stop rendering heras a martyr / who died so I could writethis fucking poem in this country, Jan / fuck \

my father too / who waited until the hourof his deathbed to whisper: te amo / fuck my poemsthat always forgive him / but never myself fornot / whispering back: te amo, papá / fuck that I will nevertire of gathering our silences / into rivers of wordsthat flow nowhere / spill into nothing, Jan / fuck \

the nightmare that was my grandfather’s dreamof me becoming some baseball superstar I was nevergoing to be / fuck that my poems only acknowledgehis love’s persistence / the popsicles he’d treat me toafter every game / no matter how many timesI struck-out at bat / at life, Jan / fuck \

the fuck’n faggot my grandmother slurred at meevery day fuck’n faggot / fuck that my poems erase herwords to write her into my best friendfor teaching me how to survive cruelty such ashers, in such a brutal world, Jan / fuck \

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A small island encircled by formidable oceans, Sri Lanka is a mystery to many: remote, hard to place; a well-kept secret. The Ceylon Press seeks to make its complicated story more accessible.  The Press publishes a range of podcasts including The History Of Sri Lanka; the off-grid Jungle Diaries podcast; Island Stories, the podcast that explores what makes Sri Lanka, Sri Lankan; Archaeologies, the blank verse diaries of an occasional hermit; as well as Poetry from The Jungles’ two podcasts, 101 Poets; and 100 Poet, 100 Poems.  All these, along with eBooks, dictionaries, guides and companions can be found at www.theceylonpress.com, based at The Flame Tree Estate & Hotel in the jungle west of Kandy .

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Erscheinungs­datum: 20.1.2025, 14:02:36