they’ve begun to call it Jasmine
as if we’re finally, finally blossoming,
opening up, breaking out
of this glass house. Trying
to connect, be like them –
White, smooth, ‘fragrant’.
But you see, We’re not blind,
we’re not retarded, and
we’re definitely not them.
Waves wait for full moons
to turn into high tides. Our anger
has risen, usurping many a
vegetable cart. It is spilling
into the Mediterranean, and like
all that we call Just, it just might
burn. Burn them; burn us too, but
we must be used to it, no?
‘Overthrown’ is a word they don’t
think twice about anymore – well,
it is one of those words that
might come back to bite you.
It isn’t tame, and de-flowering
is always vicious, quick as lightening.
In the buzz of this
cross-pollination we’re fanning,
a nightmare might just emerge.
Smell the air for victory. Only,
this time, it might just not be Theirs.


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