For those who forego the languor of home ground, that lethal rapine of routine, the most compelling sound of the travelling life might be a ferry’s foghorn throughout the night
Vacant of leaves
and shell-wrapped gifts,
dad and I can see the sky.
the fox and i
shared one glance
i think about it all the time
I’m ready for the ritual
where I get crowned a
While I sleep
journey across my bedroom floor.
In lattie we held martinis,
un-clobbered each other –
left our cats on the floor in nishta.
Rather than a distant past we can simply overcome or attempt to forget, our relationship to the historical atrocities of violent imperialism is difficult and clearly far from over, despite attempts to suggest otherwise.
How would it be to find oneself reflected as “both handsome and unexceptional”, or find one’s back captured unawares from behind, “broad and fleshy, leathery with sun and age, and marked with numerous moles and scars”?
Their guitars stand somewhere in an empty room on American soil
Dust spots in the sun settle on their strings
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
My grandfather who was not gay was born in 1930 in Seville, Andalusia. He worked as an itinerant labourer for the señoritos, the rich landlords, tending their olive trees and their domesticated animals.
There are days when my body is a forest of old pines ailing and wailing in unison