Does anyone really feel like they belong—that without a doubt, they grew from those before them?
Those with the same last name, skin colour, and shape of nose.
How must it feel to walk on land and feel that you belong, to birth your own, an addition to your succession of family? To know that no matter how high you jump, that you will be caught? To not even desire your feet leaving the earth beneath you at all?
How it must feel to be home.
Guidance Without Form
What is it we want, if not
understanding? Am I turning myself
inside out to locate something that doesn’t
exist? Guidance without form.
Grandmothers’ stories without
sound, or accompanied by hot tea.
Her meals without heat, or eaten from tables
without their cloths. Grandfathers’ lessons
taught indoors without sweat, his hands
without calluses, or tools to operate.
Excavating tide-less oceans, I am
longing for stable arms to reclaim
me in their lineage. A backward
procession to lean against, to soak
in, and mirror their strokes
in our attested waters.