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I remembered the word for communal violence in Gujarati. It came to me. Subliminal. As if my memories were detached from my tongue, prayer from my hands. I typed my fear with careful spelling Because I don't live it. I asked with concern because I can sleep without fire lapping at my dreams. I remembered hatred and agony, but only in translation. Red soil. Separated. Too long from my feet. I wonder where
dandelions rest; if they are floating myths that perch and whisper in the breath that blew them. If they fall when winds dribble to a slow... get dusted with our broken worries and sink silt deep. If they feel anxious at the whim of their path or accept lover's tugs as true direction. If arriving isn't once. Each ray of ghost silk tickling infinitely into home.
Check out pg. 44 of this issue of MOONROOT for my creative, non-fiction piece, "Dear Jason."
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April 2019
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