Continuing our haiku series with “hearth” a collection of poems about what it means to be home.
I lost the metaphor
along with some luggage
that I never carried
I was never meant to bear
this will not be your diaspora poem:
we have enough milk & honey
at the grocery store
and golden nubian gap-toothed queens who long for their mother
florence is the kind of city that sells postcards / and plastic david statues near the checkout lanes in the grocery store / the kind of city where every leather shop is named after a great artist / and every hotel has a botticelli ceiling fresco …
murmur mixing / in total silence / strange, hidden, logical …
this poem began in the belly of a fish in the south china sea, which was then caught, fried, and served
as a seven-dollar meal, rice included, at barrio fiesta in lucky plaza. this poem began on a yellowing page
in an unchecked library book about jose rizal’s noli me tangere.
I am a comma. Sometimes I think writing about yourself is an act of narcissism. I question the value of literature almost everyday. I wonder if I am asexual…