written by: Solahudeen Ridwanullah O.
Out true mother is the earth
the cosmos—a hybrid of colours—brown, black, and clay
So, people don’t know our true face
Little wonder, they judge a Pope
By the holiness of the Catholic
Like Popes aren’t somatic?
I cupped my hand,
took some samples of sand and hurried to the laboratory,
to test which part of my mother I am
I input my birth tag in the text box
each time I spin, the sand shrugs in repugnancy
“Perhaps, mother does not know our names on exile,” I soliloquy
and translated my name to the language of the soil, and spun again
this time, she said I’m a rainbow fish
—at a time, I bloom like roses, people wow in awe
another time, like withering Wedelia, people spit and shun
but in our mother’s voice, Homosapien, born of a woman, is who we are
Solahudeen Ridwanullah O.
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