The Yellow Tree


Poem: The Yellow Tree

At my house in India, in the small colonial space,

I have a tree that grows these yellow flowers,

small, dainty as vintage cinema,

flowers that bloom when you sense morose air around yourself,

flowers of affection

Spreading like my mother’s loving arms

with a hint of an Indian Goddess

the tree of women’s womb.

A sharp eccentric scent,

veins of fever inside the stem rummaging through the sky

the flowers are offered to the gods at my home,

With a warm feeling of love

(a feeling that suspends like a hot prayer, the desired grain)

The tree absorbs my tears during the night,

ingesting a swollen pain of dark poem,

sinking through my body

shivering, looking at my postures, so vague and small.,

The tree takes it all and produces these flowers,

each morning

for me to rise again,

to pick up the fallen ones and to turn them into

a golden souvenir.

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