Estranged Children of Storms

July 25, 2017

I wonder if, when rolling thunder breaks

the white noise cadence of this restless city,

I’m the only one who can hear the call of home

or are there others, looking up from the Jenga

towers of their daily struggles, straining to conjure

nights besieged by southwest monsoons and

coaxing their consciousness free from the ones

and zeroes, to nestle in the remembered scent

of rain and the hands of humid winds rattling

the shutters, touching them through the walls.


I wonder if the amniotic coastline waters we’ve

been conceived in has dried out halfway through

being airlifted from our origins and blown into this

busy port of steel and brickwork, if the archipelago

encrypted into the way we dream and love and

react to pain has been overridden and are we

skyscrapers now of Midwestern mettle, maintaining

a casual eye contact relationship with storms and

brisk walking past mentions of tropical depressions

like strangers in crowded sidewalks, with not

enough bamboo left in our souls to heed the once

second to our nature invitation to step into the

whirlwind, to kneel in the eye of uncertainty and

lengths of silence punctuating troubled sleep inside

the mosquito net that veils the dawning morning

and its flooded streets, the tree of one’s childhood

uprooted, all its secrets exposed and disheveled

and stories thrown over left shoulders, and the

village waking up to mystic infusions of heroic

blood, unfazed by the countless lashes dealt by fate

on their tired brown muscles, carrying scars like

prized inheritance and rebuilding to the beat of the

same songs our ancestors had sung centuries before.


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