a.
if your mother’s belly was an oracle, it would command
that my poems not use paper,
i am killing the very substance that develops me
like a child who eats his mother.
what world is left you, young one,
but treeless mortality
and the gathering steps of fresh extinctions?
we won’t be resurrecting any prophets
anytime soon
because they have all chosen to eat
with a silver spoon.
b.
the taj mahal was empty
once, devoid of tourism
and her needless needs.
if your mother’s belly was an oracle, it would sound out
saber-toothed commands
for me to be responsible,
at play with something other than
the relentless drumbeat of foreign lands.
nowadays, i am busy snorkeling
into the cove of her pregnancy
ready to bite off
whatever she can’t chew.
