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  • Tashyana Handy

Some whom I love



Some whom I love

sit in this place we call home,

and speak of another city far beyond my own.

I do not know how to speak of distance at the dinner table

so I bury myself in silence and try,

place a mile in a stranger’s mouth,

a morning after on my bedroom floor,

a winter in all my words,

a list of shadows on the person

you just aren’t anymore.


Some whom I love

talk about the many towns

in which they have been on fire,

lands that have held them whole in their burning.

I listen, and shake the dust off my shoulders,

hide the ash under my feet

in the same place we used to scrape our knees

riding our bikes down the street.

Some whom I love

ask for more than I can offer

when my father gives up a sentence

from the history he has received

and they unearth all the trees planted in our back garden.

Rootless hollows await the fall

of one generation’s revolutions

into that of the other.

Some whom I love

watch a changing sky by my side

and gift me a future that my present would deny.

They speak of the sun

as if it does not rise differently

on my fraction of tomorrow.

I do not wish to speak of distance at the dinner table

for my silence cannot afford the words

and the freedoms left to borrow.


Artwork by Tashyana Handy