There are times when I need
to be reminded that I am home.
Cobwebs and the sad texture
of bricks. Wobbly dinner tables. Large,
haunted windows, where the daze
of the afternoon passes through
the grooves of a small child’s
fingerprints. Where will these lines
lead? What fate do they shape
with their whorls?
And you say they hold no truth.
What will the elders say? The shamans,
nobody will listen…
Only the child convinces. The small fingers
write with colored paint, what old mouths
deign not say
through cracked lips and raisin-leather hands
with glistening eyes of wisdom, lined with crow’s feet
of laughter and pain, pain and laughter—
the same words again, throbbing,
and again from different people:
Home and my little knuckles,
Turning white from the knowledge of shamans:
That the magic goes away.
Joel Toledo, Marne Kilates, Pancho Villanueva, Sasha Martinez, Karl de Mesa, Mikael de Lara Co, Mo Francisco, Marie La Vina, Glenn Atanacio
Labels: writing exercise