Stories from all over the world hold that wayfarers, especially sailors, often got tattoos of swallows. It was, after all, the swooping swallows against the blue sky they would see well before they could see familiar shores. Swallows meant they were home. When I got my first tattoo, I already had a foot in Costa Rica and Georgia. I was coming to terms with the hard truth that having made a home in two countries meant I’d never “come home” without leaving another.
After the longest dry season, you pour yourself into the cracks in the clay and your overflowing, lasting long after the clouds have passed us by, is the color green. Hope, after so many days wondering when you might arrive, that the days of the hunger season are numbered. That tomorrow I will not ache from sowing in dry ground.
Sister, I see your arms are trembling. Brother, I see your tears, your stone-set face, how this fire rattling in your bones, shut up no longer, has burned you in the telling.
Midnight thoughts surround me, messy and monstrous, so I tread carefully. I slip between the forests built of whispers of words, searching for possibilities.