Diaspora Sonnet 44

My paradise is hollowed out.
I dwell within a famished basin

populated by the purpled crowns
of Russian thistle. This sage desert

is a dry throat and I am a whole nation
in my dry mouth. The summons

to reside here, a paper testament.
From the rock spouts rock and no

people and the wide blue sky
does not hold my attention. Constantly

I am bewildered by the nothing
germinating from the landscape.

I thought I would own the visual field
instead, this abandonment on my tongue.