Poem: The Yellow Tree
At my house in India, in the small colonial space,
I have a tree that grows these yellow flowers,
small, dainty as vintage cinema,
flowers that bloom when you sense morose air around yourself,
flowers of affection
Spreading like my mother’s loving arms
with a hint of an Indian Goddess
the tree of women’s womb.
A sharp eccentric scent,
veins of fever inside the stem rummaging through the sky
the flowers are offered to the gods at my home,
With a warm feeling of love
(a feeling that suspends like a hot prayer, the desired grain)
The tree absorbs my tears during the night,
ingesting a swollen pain of dark poem,
sinking through my body
shivering, looking at my postures, so vague and small.,
The tree takes it all and produces these flowers,
each morning
for me to rise again,
to pick up the fallen ones and to turn them into
a golden souvenir.
