Jude R.

I scrape the static clinging to the walls of my mind and form it into

something I can gently                                                        present, to

you, right here. 

  the excess words ripped down from my speech by hands that are not my

    own, by hands that hold no truth in them except that which makes me

  cower under letters swore to protect me behind feather shields when my

          own mother tongue was too harsh for my ears to fall asleep to. 

(leather hides vs euphoric comfort.) 

my tongue split in half, a janus paradox for the blessed ignorant and a jigsaw puzzle for the divided. 

  my mother taught me how to fatten up an F in cursive and string-tighten

a Haa’ till it sings on the line. 

She held my hand holding a pencil and created life on the pages and created love in me. 

The nights spent at the kitchen table going back and forth, back and forth, 

back and forth 

(the present tense lost between us as we create infinities with the shuffle of some words, time became tool for similarities to make differences, a grok guide of the inevitably felt.)

   two tongues gave me a cross-road for a mind, one where i could reach

      her without explanation and the other ending in what i think would

 better cleanse my palate of any debris left from the every-day confusion;     that which i cannot convey turns into a game of which thought would

    first prevail and which word will stay behind my eyelids for days to


the coin stops being one coin. 

the sides cease to be reserved for the inherently lost. 

 (choices, choices, choices for anyone who could spell Luck in any way.) egg-yolk Friday mornings found me under the blankets with a stranger's         words on my lips and a different heart at the end of every week-

   the nerve endings of a kid’s school life fire up at the mere mention of       curiosity, the frayed lines of freedom blur in between, there’s no place

left for anything else except naivety. 


I say words like comfort, tender reality and home and think: a young Kawn. 

 Yellow bursting with red veins and eaudenil encrusted tails-of-thought

                 disguised as relief in the face of expanse darkness. 


the nourishment of truth of an infant idea born in the seconds between a      decision; the immediate urge for creation becomes an absolute wish

                when pushed behind the locked doors of originality.


That's how life was. 

 back when improbable was a word I couldn’t spell and impossible was

stigmatised for the status quo. 

I was only looking for clues. 


Kawn: كون :arabic (n.) Universe, cosmos