it wasn’t until she told me of her miscarriage,
gesturing to the unborn, that I realised
an angel is always one short vowel of being king.

​

With such illegitimate poetry, people like me
fail so gracefully at our native tongue.
In that no man’s land between languages,
where my grandfather still cleans the ears
of a sullen Gabriel.

​

Later, when I leave Rehab’s apartment
the border wars of language continue
as a livewire overhead catches heat.

​

A boy long since taken from his mother
stands down the street by my moped,
unsure of what he’s trying to remember
like a paranoid neighbour holding his cup to the wall
failing to decipher a thing.