The Riddle of Longing
When to be an immigrant’s
son is to be a speaker of several
broken tongues, each day
leaves you homesick
for a place you’ve never
touched, nor forgotten, and feel
the ache to know. When there is
no one left, you ask the wind
for directions. Your own
voice returns with a map
of your mother’s palms spoken
into threads of tangled blue
light. Take the long way
home, through the cemetery.
There, kiss your father’s name,
bring back an echo of grief,
and a phlox. When years
later your son finds it crushed
within a book, he will feel
against his face a warm puff
of your living breath, then
a wink of green wings behind
his eyes. Strange, that I am
holding two large rocks,
looking for something else
sacred to smash open.
The Displaced Children of Displaced Children, by Faisal Mohyuddin ’00, Eyewear Publishing, 2018