Diaspora Sonnet 28

I see my father kneel in tenements

and public spaces—places where he declares

our generous hungers. There, the lilies

dry in the sun, breathless. Desiccating mouths

tilting downward toward the red-marrow floor.

My father’s knees are bruised as he sweeps up

brick dust, ground by many shoes. How the swirls

of wind-gusts from passing travelers move

the script of passing bodies. Whorls. Granules.

Shifting specks making legible faces,

all of whom resemble someone you’ve lost.

Perhaps, in your sweeping, you are truly

gathering something. As the bristles swish,

sounding like a faintly whispered secret.