My Body is My Instrument

I have two eyes, a tongue, a nose, and a pair of lips –
Uncircumcised –
I see ethnicities, speak of my own, taste the soils and whimper
My womb is an oven – for cookies, bread, rice and lentils
It doesn’t need
semen wisdom to fire it;
a wooden match stick would do – for 15 men
and 10 women –
but a Zippo lighter is welcome too.

My Urdu tones do not
forsake the law of my mother,
my androgyny does not
fail the instructions
of my father.
The colourful chords (on my cunt, limbs and breasts)
are           bruises –
I got them while rescuing myself
from vaudeville entertainers and thieves
who did not know
ART

I grew old escaping them
climbing over that steel fence          again and again
reaching out for that manual
to teach myself the art of music again –
On this package, read:
“Fragile – handle with care, fuckers
The bruises are still purple.”


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