Rolled and missing Rs.
Accentual-syllabic, slipping in and out, spaces meet in over-corrections and missed rightness.
This is the flavor of language.
What stretches and extends: crocheted flesh.
Here I am (t)here, in the space of a comma.
It comes down to the space of punctuation, a pause to find tonguing, a book that says Gikuyu women suck mucus from their babies’ noses, another that laments their too-rapid entrance into modernity, faces at bus stops that look too familiar, and those lapses when I forget where I am not.
To be orienting.
And the meaning of bright suns in winters.
Even comfortable shoes leave scars, and one wonders at the vividness of phantom pains and pleasures. What feels like here is (t)here, and the confusion of un-feeling.
To be amazed, as though continually surprised, to anticipate the pleasures of stumbles, and the hands that lift.
Patiently. A stitch at a time.