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The rich meadow pasture, filled with white and yellow flowers,
surrounding a waterfall;
My family drinks.
The slender and light brown short hairs
that stick up on my son’s head
My doe, bright-nosed and quite attentive
kneels back and envisions our future.
A small-town highway, the only roads in and out
Bending around the corner tightly into a straight away,
The coast was clear...
BAAMM!!!
A large red machine speeds,
skirting, screeching, and crashing,
My knees buckling beneath me as I watched.
I need recollection. One moment was all it took for me
To lose my son. Blood sprayed the yellow lines;
Fall was really here, and I was left
with orange stains on my coat.
His first antler, beige, smoothly curved until the point glided
across the road, the complete stop down the street,
red lights beamed.
The predators uncovered,
two beings spilled savagely from the machine,
Laughing; why are they laughing?
His guts are caved, his eyes and brain scattered,
and I’m the one that’s sorry!
The red machine was okay, or so they shouted, but my wife
fell off the cliff of sanity, and this sparked from the migration.
We were supposed to be safe,
regretting dragging my calf to such a place.
Retreating, feeling defeated, I couldn’t save him,
the two beings framed him with a smile
How grotesque and ignorant
They move proud of what they accomplished
My wife leads us, dropping her head into the dirt
as I took a glance at the orange lines once more.
We will have to live with this
until our lives are over.
The way the light lays
On rooftiles,
How it’s absorbed–
Has changed from how I remember.
Then, it was reflective, or reflexive like
One smoking chimney whispering “peace”
And the other responding “and also with you”,
Tracing the same path
As the summer’s dragonfly highway.
I presumed that light didn’t change.
That the way the bare branches
Of cherry trees would always, at a glance,
Appear as if they are growing
Into the framing of the house.
I expected that the light would,
At some point, reveal to me
A frame of reference–
For how I got to live,
To have sanctuary, here.
But the way the light lays,
Well, now, it does not lay.
It is consumed. My eyes can’t pick up
Middle-urban aurora borealis.
The dragonfly dance has a new path,
And the smoking chimneys blow
In opposing directions.
I’ve heard
“You don’t know
what you have until
you lose it.” But what
about when you needed
it and never received it,
but now you have to give it
to someone else?
Fat.
I began
to accumulate
it in my early 30s.
I wrestled with this for years.
Fire burning my brain in the form
of self-hate and other people’s opinions.
I hated my body. I hated myself. I hated the me
that was trying to find its way back to me.
Then, one of my kids needed
a hug.
Not a regular hug, but one of those hugs that shoots
through your soul and into your heart. The kind you feel
in your bones, even if you’re not the one receiving it. They ran
to me, arms thrown out wide, their feet floating across the asphalt,
to get to me quicker. They threw their body into mine, right into
my stomach. The part of me that I hated the most. The part of me that I
spent hours cursing and damning and shaming. They wrapped their arms
around my wide, broad waist, and buried their face into my chest. I felt
their fingers sink into the rolls of my back, as I crouched over to fully
encase their body in mine. I squeezed. They squeezed back. A giant breath.
And then an even bigger release. They melted into me. Into my fat.
My grasp. My body. My hold. My fat provided them safety.
Refuge away from their anxiety and dread. Relief from their
pain. It gave them a moment, frozen in time, where
they didn’t have to do anything.
Just exist. Authentically.
While I had cursed this fat for years,
It was the only place
they could receive
the comfort they so
desperately needed.
This body of mine
has carried life
8 times.
And lost it four.
This body has
housed my greatest
dreams and most
wrenching heartbreaks.
While I was hating myself
for not fitting into a box,
All my kids needed a round,
soft vessel to sink their souls
into and rest
from the world for a while.
In the moment I felt my child
release their breathe,
I realized:
I’ve needed that
this whole time.
Fat,
You were trying
to hold me.
To comfort me.
You were trying to
pad my bones and
protect my heart,
Hoping to drown out
the voices of harm
by telling me to
just do what
makes you happy.
Instead of throwing
my soul open wide and
sinking into your embrace,
I told you to shut up and
slapped your arms away.
I was looking into
someone else’s
mirror trying
to find my own
reflection.
Now I see,
I have been here
the whole time,
needing a hug,
but not realizing
I was also
Waiting, patiently, to give one.
Fat. Thank you. I love you back.
Hop on your bike
and take your soul out for a little spin.
Be sure to wear sunflowers
(and not much else)
Shed the over-stuffed suffocating duty-coat and
peel those weighted lament-layers off your back.
Go ahead. Don't be shy.
Strip the worry and regret down to
the very core of your being.
Be ruthless,
then wildly fling the whole sacred mess into the
summer-alchemy of glorious sun-fire.
It is the time of our earth-orb's joy-tilt to the light.
¡Shine!
The darkness will return soon enough.
Don't postpone delight.
I am from no shoes inside,
from vintage records and overstuffed bookshelves.
I am from the loud voices of siblings
and rolling-on-the-ground laughter,
from the house smelling of cardamom,
smoked paprika and ginger root.
I am from hens and chicks in terracotta tiered pots
and bright blue hydrangeas beneath the window.
I am from midnight dance parties, homemade pizza
and spicy chai,
from loving hearts and family hugs.
I am from barefoot walks and backyard gardens
and spread-across-the-floor art projects.
I am from “What do you think?” and “It's okay to cry.”
and ‘Lala toto’ lullabies.
From “Bless your food."
and “I will be a different parent than mine were.”
I am from learning to celebrate Kwanzaa and Juneteenth.
I am from Evanston, Illinois, but also Olympia, Washington.
I'm from Kenya, in the Motherland,
even though I haven't been there yet.
I am from grits in the morning
and sukuma wiki with chicken for dinner,
from moving across the country, every belonging piled
into a little van: mom, dad, older brother, two cats,
and screaming baby me.
I am from the mess on the floor of the room
I share with my sister: crocheted cat toys, half-finished books,
polaroid photos, and glow-in-the-dark stars.
I am from family reunions in Chicago every two years
that make us say, “Can we afford five tickets this year?”
From high school sweethearts and a family so large and diverse
I don't even know half of them.
I am from being the mediator as the middle child
and always having cats.
I am from traditional masks passed down through generations
and the beaded necklace from my naming ceremony.
I am from “Home is where the heart is.”
I am from “My family is my home.”
In the footprints of our ancestors, we tread,
Where echoes of ancient wisdom are fed.
Upon the earth, their legacy is spun,
In whispers of wind and rays of the sun.
Through misty valleys and towering trees,
Their spirits dance in the gentle breeze.
In the sacred lands where rivers flow,
Their stories linger, alive and aglow.
With every step, we honor their name,
Their resilience burns bright like a flame.
In the rhythm of drums and sacred chants,
Their heartbeat echoes, forever enchants.
They knew the language of the land,
In harmony, they'd always stand.
With reverence for all living things,
Their connection to nature eternally sings.
In the footprints of our ancestors, we find,
A path of reverence, pure and kind.
Guided by their wisdom, we strive,
To keep their legacy alive.
For in their footsteps, we learn to see,
The beauty in every rock, every tree.
In the tapestry of life they've weaved,
Their spirit lives on in the land we love.
So let us walk with hearts held high,
In the footprints where our ancestors lie.
With gratitude and love, we embrace,
The heritage of this sacred place.
Together we float on the dust driven gusts
Winding along canyons carved by decades of loss.
I follow the glint of high noon on her glimmering tail
I can’t explain how we got here
Or what we will come to when we finally find the edge
Where clay jaws open to clear blue-sky river
—
I was born in an ocean of tears,
Cried by the dolphin that leaps in rainbows
Over her heart.
That day saw a summer heat so sweltering that
All the fish in the ocean
Carved creeks into hell to survive
To this day, on the ice sheets of the River Styx,
You’ll still find glittering fins frost burnt into the shape
Of our grandmothers’ stained-glass windows.
I don’t yet know what I am,
But my mom is a desert mermaid.
Her skin scaled with armor too heavy to ride the waves.
So we float, eyeing
The sand dunes for scorpion dens
For no other reason
Than a reminder that the buried
Still have their place in the desert.
At the end of a long workday
I set out to snack on a favorite fruit
Earth’s bounty, something tart and healthy
But on the drive home remembering
A broken vending machine
My sweet tooth swerved the car
Into a convenience mart parking lot
Reese’s, please
No low sugar, vegan
Free of lactose or gluten
None of that
All-natural crap
Give me over-processed
Mass-manufactured only
Grainy peanut filling
Neither creamy nor crunchy
In-between like me
Raised to crave
All-American fakeness
Number one Halloween favorite
Dump the bag on shag carpet, sort it
Eyes drawn to plastic wrappers’ bright
Orange like surrounding pumpkin portraits
“I’ll trade you anything for it”
These days I’ve no need to barter
Hard-earned cash spent
On discounted party-size bags
Seasonal eggs or trees are fine
But cups are best
For my obsessive method:
Start with mediocre chocolate
Circumnavigate the edges
Leaving the rest
A perfect puck of peanut butter
A sandy blend to enjoy recklessly
To heart’s content.
Repeat
‘Til bag is empty or I am full.
Late in the dying light we
Forgot to keep it real.
All we wanted was to be cool.
Day after day short and long day after day we
Ran around- everywhere and anywhere- right and left.
Skipping every day, down the street, never to school.
The stitches came with the snitches. We
Were cool when we lurk
Like late into the night- ever so late.
Never cool enough we
Hard- never letting in a strike.
Spin our block they are gonna get straight.
Can’t ever keep ourselves straight always striking so our we
-aknesses never show when we let the choppa sing.
Sing it all day, all night- forget the sin.
Forget the sun, forget everything, because we
Do not choose to focus on every little thing .
Drown ourselves in Proper 12 gin.
A dance of death around the block we
Move until we box the chop- fight like smooth jazz.
Through the year / through the night / all until June.
Runnin’ these streets down and up we
Movin’ in the dark. No time to die.
But my time to die will not come until the run is up- soon?
I am from the birthplace of the mighty Himalayas,
From Nepal, a land steeped in rich history,
Where ancient temples and tales stand with ethereal grace,
And the spirit of Ganesha fills the mountain air as it flows through every mystery.
I am from the hustle and bustle of Kathmandu,
From streets buzzing with vegetable vendors and vibrant colors,
Where the aroma of spices fills the air,
And the charm of the city never falters.
I am from the echoes of prayer flags fluttering,
From peaceful monasteries hidden in the mountains,
Where the devotion of Buddha and Shiva interweaves with nature's beauty,
And a sense of tranquility forever surrounds.
I am from the taste of Momo upon my lips,
From steaming dumplings filled with flavors so divine,
Where culinary delights awaken the senses,
And dining becomes a celebration of Nepal's design.
I am from the kindness of humble souls,
From smiles that light up every interaction,
Where generosity and warmth prevail,
And strangers become family through connection.
I am from the traditions that span generations,
From Krishna Janmashtami and Diwali that ignite the spirit of celebration,
Where music, dance, and laughter unite,
And the heartbeat of Nepal finds its elation.
I am from the indomitable spirit of resilience,
From a land that has endured both triumph and strife,
Where people rise above challenges with the grace of Pashupati
And fortitude becomes the guiding light in life.
I am from the love I hold for my Birthplace,
From the bond that runs deep within my soul,
Where beauty, culture, and tenaciousness thrive,
And the spirit of Everest continues to forever grow.
I am from the dhaka topi upon my head and Aagragami rastra hamro jaya jaya Nepalaa
Ever since I was small, I’ve feared this paper chart.
A stupid, irrational fear of this sheet of white paper.
The information on the paper tells me who I am, and what I’m not.
It defines me as the very thing I wish no one could see me as
I spend time hiding, pretending that what I see on the chart will disappear.
I sit and wait, wait for the day I can prove the chart wrong, but that day has yet to come.
I wait for the doctor in the cold office, trying not to tear the fragile tissue-like lining.
For if I tear it, I only prove the number on the chart more than my body already does.
The number on the chart sits on the doctor's desk, it haunts me, it taunts me.
It knows it’s a burden to me, it knows how much I hate it.
My heart beats out of my chest with anxiety, I’m afraid of the doctor’s words.
Silence fills the room as I twiddle my thumbs and wait for the doctor’s knock.
It allows the chart's thoughts to swirl in my mind, to invade my every thought.
I think, and I think, yet no matter how hard I think, I know I’ll only leave here sad
I think about how I’ll be lighter one of these visits, but the doctor and I know I won't.
I think maybe if I really tell them how I feel, I can finally rid myself of this burden.
But, I’m too scared to admit I’m struggling, afraid to admit to even my anxiety for being here.
When you’re fat, you are stripped of first impressions.
To most, you are nothing other than fat, until you have proven otherwise.
If given the chance you can be fat and funny, fat and pretty, fat and smart.
Fat is always first and will always be first, no matter how hard you try.
So when the doctor comes in and sees my labs, they see me no different.
Already I am nothing more than fat, never mind my other healthy stats.
I slump in my seat, disappointed in myself, disappointed in life.
The chart proves that I am nothing more than that number.
I see you
Standing outside town
Your emerald gaze
Reserved, rebellious, reluctant.
Your turban, linen white, has been grazed by dust.
It’s found its home in its creases and crinkles;
Your skin has bronzed
Like the Colossus that fell so long ago.
What’s keeping you here?
Your family.
Your friends.
Your faith.
Are all long gone in the depths of the dunes,
Rolling over each in the tides of time.
But you already know that—
That truth haunts you,
It is a djinn dressed in darkness,
Bearing a bottle of tears,
Blown from glass made from the sand
Of your home, of your health, of your heart.
You look skyward, rain welling in your eyes.
Let it fall into the dust and let them become
Springs of unlearning
Springs of unfolding
Springs of understanding.
Now look at the dusk—
You feel the sun is dying.
But it’s simply shining
On someone else who needs
Assurance, acumen, advice—
Don’t forget: we all have.
Don’t forget: we all will again.
Now walk into the horizon.
Who cares if it is day?
Who cares if it is night?
No two journeys are the same—
And none are safe.
Look at the stars shining.
Look at the constellations contemplating.
Look at the sundown softening.
Hear the sand shift with each step—
Hear the summoning of your soul.
I want a home that talks to me,
Wood that gossips of the room beside me.
Patina painted stones, faint impressions of us.
Walls - that motivate renovations for the boon of forgotten treasures.
A home that is as restless as myself
playing with the wind
or the ghosts.
We need the imperfections
signs of memories.
I want the markings of our lives to un-level the floors.
Boards that play tricks, tilting up table legs,
Blowing my cover as sneak away for midnight snacks,
Inefficient heating that nudges me to climb back in bed by your hearth of an embrace.
I’m prepared for you to overwhelm me,
keep me from growing bored
rich, with a list of To-Dos
poor, with payments our generation cannot afford.
I want you to be
a guardian
whose sudden, unexplainable draft
wakes me to check your breath
I fear paying for a mortgage of
concrete overcast colored cabinets,
eternal plastic pressed into wooden grain,
imitating the idea of a floor,
sterile white paint cast upon in a uniform coat,
a cheap eraser, smudging out past owners.
I’d rather, the reminder,
of water-fatigued window sills,
always competing against rain.
Tired shingles upon the roof who should have retired,
but hey love this job too much to quit.
a home that feels how I would for it.
The reminder of,
A forgotten gardener’s soil tainted
By another world’s smelter.
Arsenic in the paint peeling from the walls,
It's an old grip letting go.
A reminder to know,
Know it’s all ephemeral.
I want banks to tuck letters in our door
Beg us to sell,
Turn that wrinkled roof,
Into effective 5 over 1s
I’m prepared to fool our grandchildren
Into thinking we built this.
One repair at a time.
Lie to our loved ones,
So the house is hugged when I’m gone.
A placeholder,
until the birds of you and I nest in the attic.
There was a bird,
Who welcomed me
With company so full of grace,
I had to assume that heaven
Had requested his visits.
Perched atop the fence that separates
My yard from the alley,
My neighbor from me, and my neighbor,
The bird would share the space with me.
Through breath and wind we would sit,
Our presence together, setting the scene.
But one day, in the grass, not on the fence,
There is sunset orange, black,
Leopard spotted belly and
Sharp curled toes clinging to
An invisible cedar board.
Black throat and marble eyes that had peered into mine,
Were frozen toward an ordinary Sunday sky.
I’d like there to be no fences
In heaven.
I’d like to find marbles of black,
Sharing breath and wind above the clouds,
As neighbors,
Above fences.
