This is your country
she said to me, before the map was clear
paves with poppies
because poppies are red, like blood, no
these are your people
confusing their letters
there are too many peas in the pod
but not enough to make dinner for the mother with three starving children
you use the word slanting too many times
but the ground under you doesn't slant, it shakes
there is a difference in the two verbs
she insists with a sense of wonder, as if one can predict the ends of earth
this is your bird,
it pointed its beak towards me, not a peacock but a phoenix
to rise from the fire you built with your bare hands
who told you phoenixes where mythological?
the proteas burn and they are as real as the back of your hand
touch it, I will never lie
this is your country,
where the letter P is used so many times
the softer it is on people's palettes makes it melt like ice-cream
to erase the taste of thistle on their tongues.
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