nostalgic wanderlust

I am homesick

for lengthy conversations with French Buddhists

on the sandy cliffs of Margao, where I got my nose pierced

January 2nd, 2011. I am lonely without

the tens of millions of silvery sand grains

which shimmered with the sea in the too-early moonlight

as we kicked amber beer bottles into the waves,

where they would float in, back, out…there I was


finally understanding what the hippies were raving about

the wind carried my hair into the sky

and I walked into the ocean fearlessly,

looking great in my Sunday best.

Now I think I may have drowned there, three years past

I do not recognise me


I wouldn’t mind sand and salt

in my hair, which I imagine long and unkempt

loose about my shoulders, sticking

bare skin cool in pools of gathering water about my limbs

the sunlight gleams on my ocean, always setting, always rising

your voice elevates in pitch and I turn

the foamy white waves turning with me,

hair billowing, suspended in watery space,

the anger I was trying to let go of

returns in full force. I don’t want to hate,

so I will focus it, damn this table between us.

and the switch clicks off again, I am

somewhere drowning and you are still talking rivers of words at me


i’ll take a minute to talk about

the pale angel that visited my sandy world, sat in my sunshiney shade

for hours, we just


tossed in the flash of water waves,


gasping, limbs all tangly salty

little urchins fluttering from our crouching shoulders

the razor marks on your thighs gleaming in the beachy sun

my bracelets jangling over my hidden wrists

your clipped wings fluttering in the oceany breezes.

those white white hands, that could capture pieces of the world I never saw

everything in your lenses flickering.

you said the trick was not in the plastic and metal clicking

the paper editing, but completely

in the subject, in the natural composition flowing

that you, had to be able to see.

I had a little baby hope, candle dancing

that you maybe perhaps could possibly

see me the way you saw the world

the way you translated your visions onto film, brought into

perfect simplicity

darkness into light

the hidden in the open.

and all of it beautiful.

Margaret Atwood


“Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It’s like the tide going out, revealing whatever’s been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. “