The Coloration of the 12 months Is Chartreuse Disgrace

Dystopian Sestina: 6 June 2049

I get up inexperienced,
love that we will try this now, change colours,
pink for grief, orange for disgrace,
new developments, new lies.
I ask mom how come purple rice
is now each a funeral and a birthday staple?
I put on my solar bubble, a staple
to greet the solar and nonetheless stay inexperienced
and inhale my birthdayfuneral purple rice.
Each day, everybody adjustments colours,
and the forex depends on lies,
nevertheless it’s not new that folks neglect disgrace.
Work have been changed by rAIsin—a disgrace,
displaying off faux artwork historical past information remains to be a staple
and that’s one factor the algorithm can’t work out: helpful lies,
it doesn’t know of the slyness inexperienced,
it tries to copy however can’t change colours
quick sufficient or take pleasure in birthdayfuneral rice.
The algorithm does assist some to hoard rice
however that’s not new so there’s no want for disgrace.
And so they’ve found many extra colours
for pores and skin inflicted by solar scorching—a pure staple
at the moment, and extra tomorrow, so extra inexperienced tomorrow?
Sure, you’ll look nice in additional! A pal lies,
she says the most effective money is earned from pleasant lies,
and what’s higher than that over birthdayfuneral rice?
Anyhow, I placed on extra inexperienced,
a model new wash of disgrace.
Disgrace has at all times been my family’s staple,
and my mom prefers the previous colours over the brand new colours.
She has by no means understood the necessity individuals felt to alter the colours,
Grandmother retains whispering it’s to assist the historical past guide lies,
the oppressor writes the historical past, it’s a staple, it’s a staple, it’s a staple
and he or she asks for plain rice.
She sleeps open-mouthed with out disgrace.
The following day she wakes up inexperienced.
I modify colours and switch my grief inexperienced,
and I sit on the nook of the room with lies and disgrace,
because the algorithm serves me the staple funeral rice.

Obit for Balochi, circa 1970

This poem is a funeral I’m not going to attend / There's a funeral on this poem I’m not going to attend / I’m not going to attend this funeral poem / a funeral just isn't a poem.
A brand new bride writes a funeral of her language:
Balochi, o rashk-e-qamar, you’re dying
on my tongue. A brand new language blossoms
now once I communicate of the world, the useless
little one, the murdered sister, the beloved’s
eyes. I maintain making an attempt to feed you
to my kids however they spit you out
like a bitter gourd. Sweetest,
if I used to be allowed, I might put you
alongside the jaggery jars within the retailer.
However you don’t promote right here. You don't have any capital.
So I’m pressured to bury you beside my still-born.
Give him firm. I promise after they unearth
the bottom, I’ll lay declare to the each of you.
Sure, sure, I’m a coward:
I say the funeral prayer for one thing that isn’t useless.
I really feel a rupture in the actual once I communicate
your phrases, a somber preoccupation with ultimate issues,
empty rinds. They maintain asking me
to chew you again, take away your fibers from my tooth,
mark a ultimate loss of life date in my mouth.
In a dream you sleep in my lap,
and I sing you a lullaby my root,
my root, my root—