I Don't Know Kerala from Adam
(a reaction to Arundhati Roy's novel, The God of Small Things)
by Sarah Martin

I wish that I could
Always be as eloquent
As I am when reading others' words,
That the rush of profundity
Could last beyond
Another writer's picture.
You moved me, Arundhati Roy;
Worse,
You moved into me
And stole the white cotton curtains
That hid my childhood within my soul.
You saw Estha in my brother;
You determined our nature before
Time did:
Two-egg twins,
Six times eighteen months apart.
You precluded all the horrors
And sought out demons,
Naming them as they marched by,
Robbing me of my sordid task.
You made me cry!
I don't know Kerala from Adam,
And I don't know my own mother soil.
I would have kissed
Those Indian monsoons had I
Known then that years would drift
So quickly by.
Upon visiting my aunties,
I would have looked up
Into that chafing blue
And later, counted all the stars
That never come out over this
Cookie-cutter horizon.
Would I have spent so many days
Reading into worlds
Had I known the one I lived in
Was the most magical by far?
WHERE ARE THE COLORS OF
MY CHILDHOOD,
Arundhati Roy,
Now that you've used them to shape
Your Gods, your characters,
YOUR life?
Will I ever find words
In my fading wounds
To render those colors
For my American children?