When will you be home & Justice

When will you be home?

My mother’s question
is the threshold of our house.

I leave like a thief. A tranny
and other perishables in my bag.

Whispers from the street, obstinate as dust,
fly through tiny openings in walls –

litter corners where no hands reach.

She sweeps a pile every day. Termites hole

through the house, making doors
out of everything. My figure shrinks

in old photographs, something eats words.
The question, once plump, grows wrinkles.

Her loneliness is another name
for my queerness. Despite the onset of decay

she keeps the house clean. When I am free
she will only have these consolations.

***

Justice

for Ramchandra Siras

There are no chairs for audience
in the court room. You sit on the window sill
at the back as someone argues
for your rights. You are an outline
in the afternoon light – rolling an affidavit
to swat houseflies.