The Imagined Detention of a Muslim Cricketer by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

Excuse me Sir !

are those bloodstains on your cricket whites?

No Sir they are overs I wiped like lips around basmati

where all of us spoke English eating cardamom from viceroy fields.

Excuse me mate

I watched those wickets smash like little bones

and remembered that earthquake only felt there

where children were detained with water from French glaciers.

Excuse me kids,

you can’t play cricket here this is prohibited grass

you can’t use fanta bottles as wickets but you can

south of Peshawar where wells blink from earthquakes.

Excuse me all,

I wanted to detain you through the power of an average poem

and question why as a white man I might grow that wrong beard

but if you want to stop me we can talk about Cricket, and that.

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