To feel so lost and be so certain that it’s because your home is calling to you, to be from somewhere else and leave long enough to not understand that place anymore, that is the migration.I came home last week to find that the call vibrating in my bones is not calling me to this… Continue reading On the migration
Tag: prose
on dad and dying
Mortatality only began to haunt me in a way I could see when I was older, when I had someone to care about and I loved my mother again. Until I was 23, I was at best unaware of the desperate war I’d waged against it: I expected my mom to follow my dad into… Continue reading on dad and dying
on growth
You are a shape with ever changing edges; You always think you know it all when you have learned your corners, But remember that you are organic and you grow and swell with heat and knowledge. You only know until you grow; And then you must learn again.
On not sleeping
Before the sun rises the loneliness eats me, in a nostalgic, delicious kind of way. I assume it was the jet lag in Sri Lanka that will forever resonate with me, that pre-dawn quiet of knowing absolutely nothing about where you are, what you will do, who you even are.I remember waking up that first… Continue reading On not sleeping
On balance
If my head were to Open down the middle From the pressure implied by Lover and loved and the books I haven’t finished, If I were to open and spill I wonder What kinds of things undigested, undiminished, Would scatter and tumble out: the jokes i forgot to tell you tangled in my memories of… Continue reading On balance
on comforts
Maybe we gofrom things like candy to things like brandyBecause our youth is like the sugar in them both:First sweet and often sought,then fermented,just sweet rot.
on storybooks
the sanctity of the fairy tales we hold close, lies in the impossibility of those places. I marvel and cherish such a utopia,because its beauty is in that I will never reach it,no one will ever reach it and it will therefore stay perfect forever.everything we touch we tarnish.
on aging together
you will love them until you waste themwary and satisfiedthey will wear youthreadbare and misshapen and it will be home
On scarring
The ones on my arms from Catching corners and cat claws, They’ve faded and blended and I I do not remember the stories behind them. I look at your letters some days and hope for the same mercy there
On spring fever
Emotional exhaust draining out of my eyes and ears and mouth like so many sooty ideas too big too chemical too much for the tired and hungry insides of little old me
Garbanzo Bae 