because a Kathmandu scented candle
hand poured in Tampa, Florida
is flickering in my room, blatantly lying.
because if you hand poured the smell of Kathmandu air
it would smell of burning tire from the protests.
the blood of goats Hindus sacrifice for Dashain,
infused with the blood of every Muslim
lynched for sacrificing a cow next door.
heaven don’t allow any beef.
it would smell the smell of Nawaraj BK’s sweat
running for his life before he makes that jump
because how dare his love be casteless?
wet cement and tar from forever unfinished,
“we are develop-ing/catch-ing up/ US-Aid is help-ing us,” projects
clouds hovering above Kathmandu reek
the body of a migrant worker,
cremated 8 months after death,
incense burning in front of his portrait-portraits.
then somewhere another plane flying to the International terminal
for the civilized
so civilized, some hid their shit on Everest.
air quality index-600; worst air in the world as of Monday
does a city in choking have a smell?
if i told you that is my home, is it wicked cool still?
who does a choking city choke anyway? i am not choking.
to live the American dream is
to escape a choking i was never part of
then watch black bodies be choked everyday.
to live the American dream is to say,
thank you, whiteness, for your mercy.
to live the American dream is to apologize,
until you realize there is no promise.
yet a dream built on lies must be shattered
despite a stunted mother tongue,
a father’s disappointment,
a deceptive candle.
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