stepping back onto old, familiar ground
I've been thinking about journaling again.
Life is busy and I don't have much free time to sit and write anymore but the thought is there.
So for now, hello woohu! I'm not sure who is left but I hope you're doing good and life hasn't been too harsh since I tapped out. The time I've been gone has been... rough. Got sick, nearly died. All good now, but I lost a few years.
Badriya
Perhaps my father's name will pass on extra-genetic traits
that will allow her fingers to be linguists,
or call the cat that tore the tongues from our faces
and left us a site for reconstruction.
Perhaps I will carry her in the folds of my pockets,
the full moon rising on the sound of horse hair in the wind.
But it's likely I'll feed her as my mother did me,
feasting on founding fathers and Great Expectations,
though the cat remains curled in the corners of our mouths
waiting for a thoughtless sigh or a Please pass the butter.
So together we dangle among our twin ribs,
belonging, at the moment, only to each other.
A Taste of Home
I.
My eardrums fought against the pressure change,
everyone exhaled and the wings shuddered
open. The engine's hollow roar dissolved
and the lights ticked on.
II.
Not-my-bags trundled endlessly before
my mechanical muscles reached for one they
recognized and swung its familiar bulk
to smash on the cart.
III. Shway shway! Fee combyutar dakhil, hajji!
The words come only after I say them -
like half-formed pearls oozing and popping at
the back of my throat.
IV.
This place feels mushy and incoherent
like old food re-found behind molars,
but it tastes like my bedsheets and smells like
something left behind.
Mindfulness in a Minefield
When you are breathing, know that you are breathing.
You expand your lungs and fill them with dust.
When you are walking, know that you are walking.
In a sterile room your sister is teething,
the lobby adjacent is all char and rust.
when you are breathing, know that you are breathing.
On a slick poster two children are talking
in a desert minefield: "You must adjust
when you are walking." Know that you are walking.
Across the lot, the refinery, burning,
makes your mother look at your birdcage bust
as you are breathing. Know that you are breathing.
You dream you are a lion hoarsely roaring
backwards. Breathe dust, walk fire. You learn not to trust
when you are walking, know that you are walking.
Faint memories, sporadic, murky dregs cling
to the sides of your skull. You are the stillest
when you are breathing. Know that you are breathing
when you are walking. Know that you are walking.
