Vassar Student Review

Vassar Student Review

Featured Author

casa?

home is no body and no place

it’s sometimes the moonlight

or making the train on time

it’s soft blankets on rooftops

and nights that do not end

 

bitter coffee from a place

you’ll only visit once

 

home, casa, is a border

that expands and contracts in non linear,

non sequential waves

 

sometimes hurt is home

sometimes displace is home

sometimes someone you don’t want to be with

is home

on a hammock and the subway

the front seat of a cab

 

on opposite sides of a museum wall

 

home is wanting to remember

and being able to forget

 

unfulfilled goodbyes

and other furniture

inhabiting a place I wish I’d see again

 

my veins,

translucent snakes of clay

like the currents of the river given free rein

shift and pump a substance

that carries stories I wish I could always see

 

of families, of fights, of tears and compromise

 

how many have you forgotten,

how many have forgotten you?

 

it is no longer my birthday

and my parents are still in another country

in a house that is no more, not yet a home

 

a distance I’ve come to terms with

like ants caught in drops of amber

and a trance

seeing lives revolve

at haphazard speeds

 

hanging sorrows like herbs

on a fridge, unknown, untitled

 

picking lemons for your mother now for yourself

 

a decapitated deer dancing in the water

and twenty heartless beats

 

and my body,

like a lover that loves themselves best,

slips away before dawn,

perhaps, but likely not,

with regret

Who will remember

The vines have grown into the wall of our house

weaving through brick and mortar

veins of a force

stronger with time.

 

On the back of a door

my height is etched

exponentially lagging lines

until no growth is recorded.

 

Corners without whispers

dust and rubbish filling up space.

 

Places damaged out of habit or spite

never thinking they could belong to someone else

wondering if the chip of the tile will mean anything,

if the coin under the wood will ever be found.

 

Auras that frame ancient carpets

tangible shadows betraying the existence

of objects past

hiding something we forgot to retrieve

negative space of routine life.

 

The chair no one sat upon

linens stale, worn and forgotten

footsteps upon footsteps

and the fading echoes of a child

 

tears washed under pouring water

a crimson stain that never quite disappeared

the ingrown grottos through which

sound and substance still leak.

 

The bookshelves that will be occupied

by strange mementos advancing into a foreign land

incongruent with the souls that linger.

 

And my grandfather

whose sleep took him to other lengths

from which he never came back

watches from a distance

a family he does not recognize.

 

And the place where once we lived

backs of doors with parallel lines

broken tiles and mended stalls

dried paint that stays like a birthmark

no longer mine.

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