[warning: this post is *prose* without capitalization. it happened very early this morning.]
tragic, isn’t it? how far we are from where we started. water from a tap has forgotten the river god’s name. immigration, flight without the household gods. arrive somewhere strange and you are vulnerable. grasping at someone else’s threads, trying to weave a new cloth from scraps. i have the name of an island and a poet. no wonder i’ve been drifting for years.
hearing an old poem makes me want to return to my homeland. see the ground my great grandparents left. took with them, only tiny pieces. Italy, Italia, i miss you in my bones. en mie osse. Ireland, northern England: you are my other mothers, my first name. so much time has passed, so many words and faces have rubbed away. will i ever touch my ancestors’ haunting grounds?