My poem sits next to fifteen poems at the workshop table

by Fathima Zahra

stares at its feet/ my poem is an orphan/ is a stray kid that went missing from the science class/ doesn’t have a birth certificate/ residence permit/ didn’t grow around books/ or other kids that looked like it/ my poem hid behind the broad shoulders of prose/ it has no permanent postcode/ sounds like three cities/ in one broken language/ loves crawling on stage/ and trying to find its feet/ so when poems/ in monocles/ and top hats/ say go home/ it says/ I am