PERHAPS

perhaps is who i see myself, see?

something open to doubt unfurling

something biting into desire fortissimo

between truth & lies, there is something

that excuses another for benefits.

in the inconsistencies, something wishes

to stable me. in misgiving, something

languishes my certitude. lives me

to what is left of me. what remains

of my past smudges my clarity.

i hear them, their songs sound like

ghosts & perhaps, bunched into tears

of black slaves emptied in the sea.

why, truth is the only lie that equates

itself with pleasure? why, progress is the

only evil that chisels itself to consent?

what good have you done to me, oh sea-

water-flames? essence is deciduous.

perhaps i’ll die knowing what to unknow,

my sense of self lost on such carrying.

perhaps i’ll write with grief & without,

not knowing what it means. how, tell me,

am i entitled to the art of naming? or to

the philosophy of ownership? i exist

in a named country, live on a named skin,

speak in a named tongue, & perhaps,

freedom is all we talk about now? in-

stead, what wounds me; who annihilates

us? between the wind & the windpipe,

which is intolerant? in lands of the free,

crows fly with wadded wings. i harbour white

deception to be trustworthy. plug by clog

by clutter, the household no longer holds;

an evil thing has happened to the walls!