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You’re living in thick-skinned silence,
and I have used arrowheads and knives
carved from a mother’s femur, struck it with flint
and jabbed it with a unicorn’s horn,
but it remains thick-skinned and
all around you, impenetrably yours

and as your guard dogs growling in slit voices,
your faded brick walls and your moats
that I slide into too easily, that I climb out of
but never to a spot safe for me from you.

My hands are trembling and made out of bulging knuckles
the same color as my face, the reflection of the moon,
they are as white as cauliflower cradled in warm leaves,
greenly gentle and covered in the dirt it came from,

and I am Columbus in the wrong continent,
I no longer know where I am and maybe
I am not supposed to be here, my flag
not quite right and your quiet stillness
is a final warning to those who no longer hold citizenship.