It feels as if I am a cork bottle, on the blue wide open sea. Good things floating all around me. Why is it? Am I not floating? I have no control on which way the wind blows or the course my life seems to be…
but I do appreciate calming tidal waves, bouncing, boisterous spiced aromas drifting.
There’s a longing, to never be alone, another to one to be found hiding. In arms of something called home, something called -ones’ own.
Hello, world, where the sun rises and falls against the backs of those in detention camps, where the mothers’ run to collect their children, catching tears, wrecking traps/wrecking balls of thunderous multitudes
oh the dream, the crashing and burned American Dream…
echoing, thirsty prayers to our people. prayers that run amuck, prayers that I thought, got to be stuck, at the bottom of “all God’s Children need shoes” Need : To be home, need to be wanted, need to be held by the tired arms’ of those who’ bleed on repetitive cycles – women, without the gag- women who would gladly bleed for their children,
women who’ve tasted grief, by the kiss of morning, swallowed by the beautiful dirt of the afternoon, where I met a South African’ woman she’d come to work with me but she’d had not a smile to wear. Said she didn’t remember how to properly put it on across the slash she’d call lips.
Said it wouldn’t be right after all the murderous-screams’ and still she couldn’t press out the stain of devastation in the hems and it seems- that kind of hatred. Dwarfs countries, I know this because in capitalism- I’ve heard my great grandfather’s stories about our own…
Old man Jack was a slave sent over on a Nigerian slave ship- he too, endure the great and terrible passage, Old Man Jack was a man – the meanest of those who refuse to be broken, Said he was a man, before the Americas’- and that his master could beat him all he wants, but after the great sun went down, Old Man Jack still refused to work.
And when his master died, Old man, Jack became free. He settled down in the mountains he married a Native American(Blackfoot) woman, started drinking real-heavy like and froze to death in the snow. We’d soon move to El Paso, Del Rio, then on to Liberty and then onto San Antonio where my grandmother’s father, would orally pass down the story of Old Man Jack -the meanest man we know.
I smiled at the cashier, she gave me Kombucha, Blueberry tea, it bubbles my on tongue. I’m sure I’ll have time to taste goodness. I picked the stool by the window, watching the train going by. The little cafe was so close to the tracks. I could feel the engine, rumbling, rolling along, in front of me.
In that second, I closed my eyes. To the aromas of the mid-day, vegan pea soup, crispy baked banana-bread. I could be on that train. The aim of landing nowhere. I’d be riding for days, counting Evergreens, counting little people. Counting baby birds. Counting eleven blue-moons on the horizon.
As I opened my eyes to the miniature squared- window. Once more, on the left side of the tiny cafe. A baby poodle marking his territory. People shaking hands, laughter spiraling. Fermented green-tea storming the air.
kindness has its worlds’ of flow.
lairs and layers
zones, and quivers, cubic dimensions of honeycombs
I am Eva -former refugee, doctor and a writer. My parents were Holocaust survivors, I escaped communism. I wrote a novel, mixing family stories and fiction. A novel about Holocaust, communism, racism and emigration. What makes people leave, and what happens to the ones who do, and to the ones who stay. I believe these old stories are more important now than ever before.