When you were born, your matted curls of hair dried into feathery spikes of tiger down. Tiger because it was dark brown, almost black, except for where it sizzled golden at the tips. It was arranged in a perfect mohawk, perfect because you were born on Mohawk street in the darkest hour of the morning. Today that fuzzy head of yours smells like yellow curry, and your once tigery hair now has the distinct flavors of saffron, cinnamon, and turmeric in the sunlight.

This is all you will let me write, right now. My tiny dictator who will only sleep upon a bed of flesh, warm and breathing. Your throne, my lap. It is time for another airplane ride, you scream.