A Question of Identity
We do not blend into the pink tropical sand. Far more visible we are than rocky cliffs from which, if I stand and face the wind, secrets of the past crawl, ant-like, into my unwitting ear. As I climb the ladder to the bluff, sea grass reaches out; I brush its grasp away offering it nothing but rejection as once did ancestors who stood upon this ledge and pushed another man, opposite him on the color wheel, into a watery hereafter. His descendants say this is the way of survival I say it is the way of extinction And soon we all are gone, no voices heard, no footsteps, not even a scrap of sentimental cotton. Oh Lord, we know not who we are or who we might have been. When He's Had Enough Today of all days, he chooses to stand, feet firmly planted. A wide-based oak, he joins the forest Hears the rising rustle of rebellion's ecstasy This grove of thumping hearts of polyphonic chants that feel like summer rain to a parched leaf, that strip away fear's binding web, that bring back dying town's pulsation; Is it this that draws the truth from diaphragm to mouth like capillaries siphon blood to skin? He gives no ground, moves nowhere, though others quake choking in a storm of smoke Let it be said: today this street is his. Bio: Mukund Gnanadesikan is a poet, novelist, and physician who lives in Northern California. His first novel, “Errors of Omission” was released in 2020. A sample of his recent poetry can be seen in Poetry Quarterly, Ginosko Review, and Remington Review.