My unripe self-love is overcome by the flaws I find, I search for.
I long to soothe, to sing myself to sleep, but 1AM stretches out
Longer than a day.
The greenness of the relationship I have with myself
Is ever so slightly warming up.
A colour of yellow or orange or maybe even a tint of red.
I try to hold all the pieces together until they are ready;
Until the glue between the cracks is just a little bit harder,
Just a little bit stronger.
You take out my hair-dryer from the bottom drawer
And offer to help harden the glue;
Ripen my self-love.
I hear the clock, I hear your breath.
I hear the birds, unbound by time.
The cars go by on the one-way street
All headed to the same place (somewhere far).
I hear my thoughts.
I hear the wind.
(I wonder if they are the same).
I wish to breathe, to remain still,
But the future whispers impatiently my name.
I am by a big window
Staring at the sky.
I see light but no sun,
I feel light but no warmth.
I hear a hum.
I feel the rough carpet beneath me
Threatening to burn my skin if I move too fast.
I stay still,
A sun. Any will do.
The universe is vast and uncaring.
I could be elsewhere,
I could be here.
I am forever somewhere,
Or nowhere at all.
The summer both Mama and our dog
Had a herniated disk in their lower backs
Both cried in pain and in sympathy.
We talked about death and quality of life
Which didn’t feel so different
There on our kitchen floor.
I sat with my coffee and a book
In the early morning
The dog already in pain
(Not early enough)
My hand resting on his panting head
Not comforting enough.
It is not easy to look into a dog’s eyes
As he is waiting to end.
He aged within three days
The cat stopped by to smell his legs
And for a second I thought they might work again.
We read him stories to let him imagine that they would.
I brought a mattress into the living room
To sleep beside the dog
With our heads resting close
Each breathing in our own animal way.
Freshly painted walls echo
The sounds of thunder inside
A home for others,
Maybe also me.
I am curled, breathing heavy
I am changing, wanting more
I look for movement, wait for sound
Inside this frozen house
I pretend to be home
Ma’am, does your luggage contain any agricultural plant or animal species?
Do my roots count?
My home is a diaspora
No longer “the” diaspora
Because each place is foreign to the other.
(and I am foreign to myself)
I have integrated thoroughly enough into this new territory
That it’s time to confuse myself once more
Let’s dig up those roots again
Home is found in the digging process.
Home is somewhere mid-air by an oval window with some ginger ale and no leg room.
I lost myself in myself,
I didn’t know I had to look.
I lost myself in myself
And made up a map to feel in place.
I lost myself in other people
Thinking they would know the wind.
I lost myself in other people,
I went back home.