maybe
maybe.
maybe there is another home for us. a home a lot like this but instead of a rich blue canopy above it’s a deep glistening golden, like fresh marmalade generously spread over so that every thunderstorm is a saccharine shower.
where grass can grow higher than skyscrapers so that children run barefoot in the summer between their towering emerald blades, singing to the tune of the wind out loud, and the rivers always go upstream because this world doesn’t know the word ‘down’.
a home where stars sizzle out loud instead of shining bright and the sun sings itself to rest and the moon toots his own horn and men and women walk with their hands flat on the ground but birds stand amongst them tall and proud, and on the stoop of a six-dimensonial house shaded by tall grass blades from the sugary rain, maybe in this world you aren’t underground, but sitting on this stoop with me as I rest my pig-tailed head on your dainty shoulders sleepily. maybe that home still feels familiar, because in our home here, the sun has gone down too early and the stars are clouded by confusion and the grass around your tombstone has also somehow died already.
but maybe there’s another home for us.
The Day You Died
The day you died
I made a list
to remember you by
writing down all
that made you, you
Bitter powdered cocoa smell
stirred in with laced tobacco
crescent-like half a smile
loud, cackling, hyena laugh
tall, lanky, binding hugs
flushed hot chocolate skin
the grooves of your glasses
indenting your stubby nose
purpled lips from years of smoking
The day you died
I made a list
to hold all that
you were
but tonight
it feels too light
The teeth violently grind
and I line the green crystals
just like you taught me
neatly in the paper’s fold
licking the line
rounding it into a tube
lighting one end
and exhaling the other
holding the list foolishly
thinking it can hold all of you
The day you died
I scrambled to capture you
shoving you on paper
before you slipped away
The mint plays on my tongue
and the smoke settles deep
I think of bedtime stories
with angels on our shoulders
and godmothers all watching
and late loved ones as stars
away from this world
and out of my reach –
my palm crumples the list
only to let it float right down
The day you died
I thought of how
I could keep you
in this world with me
when all you wanted
to do was leave
But the last of the smoke
pushes out with resistance
I stub the end out on the list
till the blank canvas in the dark
glows eerily from the center
with a scattering of ambers
kissing and igniting the paper
and for a second I wonder
if the sequins of stars above
are the millions of cigarettes
you stub through the sky every night
just to keep us in your sight
‘An Ode to the Galaxy of Smoke’ is a collection of (unpublished) poems I wrote in honour of my late brother who died of suicide last year. Although I have been expressing myself via writing for over 17 years, my style and connection to it has only strengthened over the past year. Poetry and prose have both been my aids in every journey I have ever been on, and this submission reflects the roles they play in my life, through three different pieces.
Editor’s Note: The short story from this collection, “There’s No Secret” is scheduled for publication on December 15.