Like dust

The truth about father’s divine law
is written in negative spaces
for in the world of being
there is only a mother tongue
that sings out of tune when slipping
through daughter’s lips
and a faith that swallows her whole
then spits back out her blandest bits.

Father doesn’t quite like
that in negative spaces she
kisses imaginary women
and sells cultural secrets
to imaginary spies.

In negative spaces
like smoke
she changes forms
and father sees her
again
as a foreigner
dreaming of a sacred space
full of dust
she blows into the empty corners
disturbing ever so
slightly
the cosmic law
of father’s restless gods.