In saying grief, Sarojini says hope is the
anguish of prayer. I dream what
cannot be held, ask
it to cross a border, sit beside me. Old
country, I am hopeful and
troubadour. April awake,
I move through the dim house for days to find the
world outside mythic. Those first days of
routine
bloom. A day, long, intrauterine. Each raceme-
shaped hour in the new country; disciple of
inflorescence,
I pause to study petals stunned by their topaz. The descent of robins.
How close the country comes to extinction with its
tongue invading me. How it makes
seasonal treatise. I replace
my Celsius with its Fahrenheit, apologize to the old self,
saying I’m stung by the new country. Acclimating, I say peas, please,
when I mean hunger for the oiliest ewà ágoyin. Stung. For the cumulus
