Apostrophe: Amit Parmessur

Amit Parmessur
Where should I stick you when there is
no honeypot at the end of my name?
I have known you since I started zipping
pencil cases; you divide, but you are a rule.
Since my first prose, I have laboured
in erecting your head but you have always
denied me love and possession,
like the tear in grandmother’s death.
You have evolved, just like my language,
while my precocious tadpoles
have failed to become frogs.
Many forget you are a small 9 to be filled.
Many mistake you for a can of wriggling worms
and martyrize you in their elisions.
Many stumble in front or behind an s
because of you, if s there is.
Many suck their teeth for you.
Many forget you completely.

O Flying Comma, I need your bloody
blessing to stick the sibilance of success
to my name in the pool of poetry.

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