Sliver of truth

A
hairline splinter
is the truth
in the facade
of my existence
split open
to who
I am not
who
I want
me to be.

A migrant's tale

A map
of the world
measures
the arc
of my
migration
two suitcases
in tow
carry
all the history
i left behind
chennai
heathrow
jfk
a slow shuttle
to la guardia
stares burning
a hole
through a piercing
already in my nose
this is the 80s, after all
onward to chicago
a new life
eight hours
north of evanston
one bedroom
to call home
television programs
as abundant as
all the potato chips
i can eat
and boy, did I
swelling my hips
to fit
the wide open space
i consumed
it all
india now
a distant
exotic
memory.

Of color

The color of your skin
is an accident
along the equator
of circumstance
that can
set the course
of your destiny
the color of your skin
nothing more
than a pigment
of your imagination
the color of your kin
can divide the world
if you let it
swallow you whole.

Angry man

His rage roars

like 

a river

unchecked
destroying
little big things
in its path
scattering
memories
good and bad
flushing them
down
a sewer
too small
to hold
all
that used
to be
well
it's a rage
i can do
without.