THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

Devi Lockwood

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Great Circles

 

I step out of my skin, my gender,

my place-names, leave them in a pile

 

on the bathroom floor. The new language slides

like an egg-yolk down my throat.

 

At dusk three shoeless boys kick a ball

of plastic bags tied together by twine.

 

My world is made by thatched huts

that stand up and walk on feet of their own.

 

Some things follow me across borders:

love, honey-thick, insecurity.

 

If I choose any direction and walk

for long enough, I’ll find the sea.

 

There are other kettles to boil,

leaves and soil and the hand-written

 

placards of a revolution.

In a dusty town, the youngest

 

of three brothers flies a kite,

rolls spool after spool of footprints

 

onto the roof of the sky.

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