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.

~

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