i am a daughter of blue-skinned immigrants;
on thursdays at dawn i swallow scripture and 
hymns of Demerara.
my grandmother speaks to me of the patron saints of yellow suns,
kings rendered silent by fanatics and
Queens that drowned worship in crimson monsoons.
she tells me of sugar-apple Indians,
coconut girls who sealed their foreign tongues
with solecism and banana leaves. 
diffident, she sucks candied walnuts,
moans for:                                                                                                                                            scaled lions
                pygmy lilies of water                                                                                                              eulogies for dragonfly children
                razors of crepuscule
                dribbles of mehndi that soil lehengas (and Girls)
                jasmine blood and pomegranate ice
                one-hundred and eight burgeoning lotus rootsthe caprices of our matchmakers are muddy in translation, 
but seldom forgotten.