I want to tear a page from the book of alliterations.
To get lost in an orange grove where blossoms
abound but bear no fruit. Here, they are losing
their language, but remember enough
to know what’s been forgotten. Still the women speak it
to dishtowels and bathwater. Sweep bits of it off the floors
and call it dust. There is never anywhere that isn’t here.
I’ve learned that more times than I can count before now.
Before now became then. Before then
became us. Before us ever was. I’m told
there was a tree, back when time was still suckling
at forever’s breast, when exile became existence.
The first invention was not a wheel, but a wall to make here, here
and there, there — someday we’ll go back, I promise, Dear.
My father told me every plane was bound for a home we
hardly ever saw. We lived in his memory. He built it from
splintered wood and the resilience of regret mixed with refusal.
But the winds have borne it down now. Every edge
softens in time — we become ourselves, diffuse.
Ingest accents and let them fill us up. Drink deep
from bad habits in the dark of ourselves,
hum whatever is in the air.about the author