Torn

I’m torn between two poems, two oceans,

five countries, half a dozen rivers, two

dozen houses, forks in desert roads, motions

in parliament. Between the forks of due

processes. Between me being me, and you

being you. Between emotional quotients.

From wingtip to wingtip, from limb to limb

I’m easy to tear, separate into

segments along my perforated rim;

steel’s superfluous, a flicker will do –

of fabric, winds, porcelain grin, an eye through

a fanlight, a word, a long drawn out whim.

 

Torn between two stanzas, just now, and thrust

into matryoshka dolls, nested disputes,

between assets and titles, diamonds and dust,

isms and schisms and their hydra-headed fruits

and it’s easy to throw me, blind on the routes

of zigzag lightning between duty and trust.