City

Heavy accumulation collecting. 

Layers of sadness in this

Feverish city, Los Angeles. 

Below the sediment of wasted dreams 

Her slow and steady heart beats,

Like the final pulsation of 

A dehydrated whale.

Washed up; toxic waste from

The years of consumption. 

Famished and exhausted,

Small bodies lay tormented 

Beneath shrouds of weak immunity.

Whilst vessels overhead draw despair 

Into the hazy atmosphere. 

Home

In a non-location, 

Beneath my breast and rib,

In an unspecified chamber of my heart,

There exists a place where I yearn to stay.

Settled and content I would be, here. 

It’s presence aligns with my presence. 

Here. I am. Present.

Here. My memory is cherished, and my future is welcomed. 

Here. I would breathe through the ventral vessels. 

The breeze that rustles through the long grass,

Making the wind sound like the sea. 

Ear to conch. My home under the waves.  

This place which has always existed,

In the wombs of my ancestors. 

Derived, their strength is my will.

Still and quiet rooms harbor the lineage, 

Like the marrow in my bones.

Contemplation reverberates softly from the walls,

Murmuring in the corners of the ceiling. 

Unsettling the webs, making them sway.

Here, I am never alone. 

For I have myself and

My chest.

My heart. 

My ribs.

My breath.

My home.