kenya, thinking


I am always leaving.

Half-eaten avocados tan. Ibis cede hard-won ground to bully crows. Indecision rusts. It is too exposed. Red dust waits to erase untaken steps. We speak of full emptiness, hysterical pregnancies, camouflaged promises.

In the morning, the baby snakes will be waiting.
Home has become difficult to feel. An acquired taste for jaded palates and callused tongues.

Phrases agglutinate. There is sifting. Taxis are best friends.

“Where are you from?”

“Where are the Datsuns?”
We settle in holding patterns. You will be next. Certain explanations. We throw bones. Read the clouds. Create fruit salad futures.

He chews half-cooked flesh with a laugh and a beer.
My niece’s favorite word is “winner.”

In the middle of someone else’s story, I pause to insert a comma, remove a space, delete a semi-colon.

Small rituals make familiar worlds. Snowflakes disorient. Lacking their familiarity I look for patterns in dust dances.
Rain no longer evokes memories. Days are dry taps. And clichés no longer comfort.

Smiles are no longer inevitable, and fossil surfaces will not yield to entreaties. Familiarity is not spongy, and I am spongy.

Spongy comminglings.
I am always leaving.

Playing hide-n-seek with keys, peek-a-boo with locks, getting caught in passages, trapped in time, missing the mark.

Leaving is inexact, and the hours fissure on nerve endings, my fast feet and lagging hands, my lingering sleep and hungry stomach, my new allergens and old viruses.
Those who arrive keep their first shower water for a year.