homeland

 

I belong, legally, to the British. Ancient stones, warm, wide-lipped stoves. I belong to which woman, the witch women. Unafraid to transform or transmute.

The green and the grey. Rolling hills, I belong to them. I yell bloody Mary too much.

 

However, I am split up, my body belongs to somewhere foreign, somewhere I have never stepped foot on. They wouldn't take me in, I laugh too loud. I enjoy kissing too much.

I speak too often, about the all-encompassing. This place is yellow and blue.

Dusty, jewel coloured. A big blown-up Buddha. Red rubies for eyes. The secret earth, the long-lasting meals of rice and meat soup. Fish with Jaleebi. Sunset coloured tea. Kebab street side.

 

The women are long and blue, the men mean.

 Hardened by endless, graceless war.

Love letters that could kill.

 

The men that keep women

 that burst like stars,

in airtight house-jars.

What are they afraid of?

 

A fire erupts in the Hindu Kush,

a grey-haired afghan granny

is praying for the flames.

 

Afghan dust is a mixture of bone and foreign soil,

 continuing to be damped with fresh blood.

 

The boys and their high-flying kites, rainbow diamond dots in the sky.

The girls watching from their yard, close to home.