two weeks from now, Nakor(u) will return
she will throw on old tshirts, run barefoot,
drink chai and kahawa and bottled sodas
walk for miles into the hills and villages
shoulder gunny sacks, sling toddlers up onto her hip
roll through gritty, dusty syllables of truth
spitting the sunflower seed shells from cracked dry lips
hang off of the back of open pickups and little dirtbikes
bathe splashing from basins, rubbing the rusty earth from skin
sit up late at night with only hurricane lamps and candles
sleep outside under trees and stars.
there is so much she’s missed
not gonna lie, there is so much that hasn’t been translated
through the tea strainer of chilly mornings
into what can be understood by real life.
why there’s always salt in my hair,
hair that’s been cut shorter and dyed,
the way my arms and legs are paler from lack of sunshine,
the layers and layers of clothing that are never enough
but most importantly, the 10mg of hope
the cast for my heart
the bit I toss back every day with my afternoon coffee
– how will I explain?