خط

I kiss the tongue that slips
your accent through my English, in remembrance,

& lick the ledge’s fault, where your
foot slipped towards your fall. Once

wet, the page doesn’t part, but stays
open to that city grid, where the speck

of you remains; tribute
to a place the ink was

run. Father, abi, they are coming
to kill me; demanding my left hand,

& all the ink I squandered on it
dragging over their script,

has found itself back on my skin.
Your running name, my blackened

thumb, will make a mess of us,
or else, a map.