Boa Sr.

I cannot speak to you.

You cannot hear my words.

You are there.

Even in this bright sun I can see your shape and

I can smell you child.

I may thirst.

I may need embraces.

Look at my eyes,

they do not work as windows,

the skin has grown over

but they can still serve as

messengers.

See, if I furrow here

And pull my cheeks towards them,

see my teeth,

I am feeling pain.

See, if I hang the muscles, sag my jaw, though it hurts my teeth to feel a breeze

You may see grief.

Do you child?

I feel you.

Feel warmth.

Hear your babble and think maybe it’s comfort,

but something makes me shudder, heart leap every little

I panic, unsure .

Shush heart, shush and amble.

There are few  turns left for you to take.

A leap may be worth 50? 100?

 How long in time would that be?

Long enough to wrench my face?  To rearrange the flesh?

To make you call my ancestors?

Do you know the song?

 I can prise my lips, cracked, drawing spit

and if you bend near child,

can you hear my whispers?

My hand claws empty air

it shows an arc for you to follow

close to my sour breath, the little cavern of my mouth,

closer

and hear the sand shifting,

hear a dry leaf scratch.

Repeat it.

 

 

This needs an explanation I think. I saw a story today in the Guardian about Boa Sr, the last speaker of the Bo language of The Andaman Islands who has died in her 80s. The language had been around for 65,000 years. It made me sad and although she was able to speak Hindi and another local language, she'd spent the last few years of her life unable to converse with another speaker of her mother tongue. I took this a stage further in the poem and wondered what it would be like for her if no-one had been able to understand her. It was written in a hurry cos I just felt I had to write it urgently, it probably shows.