Torn Branches

Grandfather lies in wait for me.
I cannot see.

My voice is young and burnt
My voice is a bramble berry squashed on stone.

All afternoon I lay curled in a hole
In the bamboo grove where cobras rove.

No one knew.
Rove – How did I learn that verb?

From my Scottish tutor –
She rapped my knuckles hard.

A swan in a bag, worth two in the lake.
A stitch in time saves nine.

She taught me some such things.
Who will bring me sweetmeats,

Swirl henna on my palms?
Who stokes sugarcane with kerosene

Binds cords of broken rope?
Dark sisters in the sky, their wings are torn.

They have stumps for wrists.
They sing Hosannas to our Lord.