I’m the traveller waiting in transit,

whose flight is not yet fixed or known to him,

in a foreign land whose food he now eats, 

whose language he now speaks fluently in. 

The boarding time—that’s still a mystery, 

but the retail offers make up for it, 

and the cheap spa’s soothing soul therapy, 

one would give up checking every minute. 

Crowds or jostling bother not much longer

than the dated movies showing on screen, 

so other travellers ‘round drinks gather,

forget the land they were meant to be in:

the land of ancestors and native tongues,

of healing and soulful songs to be sung.

The womb is filled with echoes from drops of 

warm pregnant tears, warm as the blood boiling 

within the ribs slow braising until soft—

can humans ever be made from cooked things?— 

with enough heat, flesh melts. The small wet space

beneath lit stove is dark as December, 

nothing lies there but a white flag raised;

the sour smell of rain draws the broken near

and cold wind scatters unused seeds afar. 

So, after hope simmers, loss evaporates,

there’s nothing left except a reservoir

of testimonies noone wishes said.

She spends her hours there long, sipping tea,

preparing dinner to set her soul free. 

Encrusted in the corner, thirteen years’

resignation and leftovers nibbled 

on by mites and her son’s muffled demurs—

he lives not on bread alone, but chewed words

unturned, unlike the rounds he makes around

the flat—enchained unto bed frame, his sake.

I squeeze wet sponge with soap and scrub annul 

long layers pent, rust-toned spirit bits break,

resist a cringe at dirt congregating

on kitchen floor doing their liturgy,

they are offerings in exchange for nothing

but every gift rotten and good deceased;

finally, first light—a grey tile like night dissolved to dawn—sore arms lift in delight.

One step further felt a step too far

past destination sign miles behind—

how long did shepherds trudge in winter

between announcement and touching divine,

or did it feel before the unfolding womb,

like flowers blooming into blood-red figs,

emptied out, waiting room or nascent tomb?—

yet, I was nowhere, as if transfixed

in Challenger Deep, but to plunge forward,

stabbing fears like unseen hedges surround, 

though assured I’ve not stumbled on corpses 

and one man has lived to tell what he’s found.

When at last I saw the familiar path, 

every iota of my flesh leapt and laughed.