There is a voice in my head & walking
through the voice is like breaking through
a strong door that holds grief of how home
becomes holes for rodents. & this voice is
a kind of recipe for living under the weight
of loss that throws my home into the cobweb
of colossal crumbs. & the loss is an island in
the middle of a place called: longings,
screaming of how grief is tattooed on my skin &
my body couldn’t respond to the stimuli of home.
From afar, I watch dots of blood walking through
the rear door of despair & like a broken jar that
couldn’t hold water, my home couldn’t hold the thread
that tie history & future. & I couldn’t serenade grief
with the piano lessons taught from the hymn blaring
in Grandpa’s piano, for the voice in my head tiptoed
on barefoot, raking quietude to reach the crescendo
of how I can’t break through the grief in my head.
