Achilles

what am i but the tropical breeze passing through the tree line. bare feet meandering through short blades of grass 
algae and moss growing in the gutter shielded 
from the battering incandescent sun. 
i tried to farm onions by placing whole bulbs in the shade of the mango tree, the sprout my family buried when we found ourselves 
in some far corner of a corner had long turned 
to brambles, reaching far up, ever daring a prehensile nature. the cool mildew of the morning 
reaching where the roads start to punctuate the world, 
to take the bus and i must stand because the bus stop has snakes. 

my parents do not find symmetry looking through the reflection of their eyes my father is tall and dutch and crass 
and my mother is short and indian and sweet vesuvian. 
separated by time and sea, bounded in electrochemistry, 
burnt –frayed synaptic ends and black lungs 
my laugh is borrowed, my sigh inspired, correspondence in a clenched jaw unknown by time and sea but i know my grandparents, in bangalore, who come to visit when they can and my ammamma who speaks malayalam and diminishing english sat with me to teach me chinese. 

industrial dust settles on the window boards, on the leaves, blown in from an encroaching world. semiconductors and rubber. 
metropolis standard. my rambutan tree has stopped bearing fruit, there are no mangoes. no infernal shakings of the house, 
stretching and breathing. no strange people wandering, standing outside the front door in the dark. i am kept far away now 
from this house, spirits and ghosts, next to the prison, in the jungle. you can see through the tree line. the grass, a pallid brown, does not sing with the wind.