Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










White Cliffs

I’ve haunted history, big white sheet over the heads
of all my ancestors, bucket of piss-warm milk over-
flowing with my average, born always already
in the lobby with my headwind right behind,
a thousand pale uncles lined up on the staircase
offering their hands, the higher the ceiling
the wider my parachute. There is a poison I ingest
that I can’t touch or speak to, every word turning
true and apolitical, my name on all the silverware,
my suit of armour rusting, universal waves a-lap-
lap-lapping, universal moon signing off each peak,
as the big lads assemble singing O my shitty country
could be any shitty country cross the sea sea sea.