A Question of Placeby Bryan Thao Worra
Poseidon digs a grave for me in the side of beleaguered Gaia: Trench wide, ocean deep, a hole calling from beneath his cold, stoic waves. Ambitiously he makes ready, gazing at the teeming shores of man As though there is not space enough upon the earth for this sort of thing. The Ocean Lord does not realize the methods of disposal are as myriad as the erosions. The promiscuous lips of Agni might ignite my husk, disguised as careless match or Deliberate flame, and winds, drunk on intemperate currents, may spit my ashes Across the lands to visit all of my ancestors. Two decades since my foot last fell upon my native soil, Often asked when will we return: Always, it is this return we're expected to undertake. Even with feet pierced at birth, Oedipus could not resist the call to a home he never recognized. The son is tied to fate, to soil, to heart, to grave. What home is this, that people want? To be born where the final comfort, too, is served. In exasperation, hearts gasp for the complexity of ants. Surely ants don't ask such riddles of themselves, even those night travelers upon the beach swept away by Poseidon's mischief, trying to return beneath the hill of their own making. © 2006 by Bryan Thao Worra. All rights reserved.