As much as they sought to swallow the ghosts of history, their eyes remained curiously trained toward home.
Am the acronym, the fever dream,
Was elegant, was sharpsheathed
as the Spanish
You seem conflicted.
Remember the melting world, burning into frog soup like a lullaby, so slowly we hardly know we are not just falling asleep.
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Before the leaving, there is the staying, there are the days of in-betweens, sheltered in the arms of our mother’s mothers.
The tenor of days spent on land that is more water than ground, more magic than science. How during late evenings, in the dying light, our breaths crackle like thunder, and our history moves in everything.
Home would no longer be a place where the leaves would bend to the sound of our names, but somewhere that would come to know our silences.
There is no place we will go that will not know of where we’ve been. There is no place we will go that will not know our songs.