Ill in My Own Yard

to ache for greatness

is to stare into the mirror

and find new flaws—

a daily audit of defects.

I don't want to be the greatest—

or maybe I can't bear it.

I want the voice

to question every so-called great.

a frankenstein of my desires:

stitched from people I've tried to become,

held together by choosing silence

over speaking.

Kabir said:

keep the one in your yard

who speaks your ill.

so I learned to stand close

to what hurts me.

don't be the cigarette

that learns its shape

in someone else's hand,

burns just long enough

to feel chosen,

then vanishes.

modesty hollows me out.

this shrinking—

it's unlike the person I meant to be.

is this restraint,

or fear with better grammar?

I don't want to be the greatest.

I want to speak

without vanishing into references.

I come from the fringe of my nation,

and bleakness is what I inherited.

we learn early what not to say.

we talk without raising our voices.

most voices here are already decided.

forgive the poets I misquote.

forgive me for writing one more poem—

and still not saying your name.

that's all the r e b e l l i on I have,

eating unpeeled carrots unwashed

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