Rathgama, Sri Lanka

 

From the bottom of the closer ocean

I scrape a sea into a plastic bottle

 

Let its conlang sibilance bury me

when I go

under—

 

Here in this one place

rise accessed by braving a sudden deep

the sand is spindrift escaping

when I come up not for air but to pour

liquid the color of my skin

into the thin mouth before the next swell

sinks me

 

My brother says there is enough on the beach as well

rare island shells    threadbare sarongs    an American frisbee

I brought home as a gift for his daughters—

 

It is not the sand I seek

it is the turbulence of my agglutinative tongue

digging in defiance of viced currents

that pull me further than I have gone

further than the country that slips

and slips through

my fingers