Chandramohan S
When a griot sings
his tongue becomes
an unsheathed primitive song;
a lyrical unfurling of
tales of my bloodline.
When a griot sings
hair re-grows on my scalp
previously shaven to weed off lice.
When a griot dies
his tongue becomes
a winged-phallus
hovering high in
the smoke from his pyre
the light
perching like a pole star.
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