twenty minutes from the center of the city

once rice fields that my grandmother admired each morning

whispering to dragonflies in the cup of her palm 

squint at night and see cold stars tearing away the horizon

motorcycles and black clouds.

in our kitchen, my mother cuts her finger 

unwrapping three layers of stiff plastic 

around microwave hotdogs from the grocery store.

but if you look into our home,

there are still house geckos

that i hear chattering in our curtains 

making sounds of contentment 

and tomorrow morning i see

a pair of dangling feet and two paws

above coconuts and bottles floating in the river across the street

a strangers breath suspended in morning beams

torn flip flops and a pail of fresh dog food

that smells of cereal and love.

i latch onto green anemoia by its feet 

drawing lines of nature along the streets 

below the graffiti: 

there are desert roses in ceramic pots

black squirrels tracing trees against the malls

cats clawing at fresh coconut shavings 

on the floor of the flower market

licking their paws before they fall asleep beneath fresh ginger

you are a living thing 

your lotuses have and will grow out of mud