As you change into the black top
you prefer to wear out,
I sneak a glance
to check the status
of the skinny scars
inflicted by the blade you keep
tucked under your mattress,
Old wounds mingle with new
across your gaunt olive skin,
a permanent morse code
telling the story of a pyro-botanist
who can't let herself grow.

I glance back up
at your now-empty smile
and ponder the irony
of a middle name like Mirth.

I'd call you both my North Stars,
but then Trish would point out
there's only one,
and Chaney would argue
that if that's the case,
it would have to be her
and I would pull up images
of night skies in Calcutta
and Jo-burg and Rome
to prove that different views
show different stars,
so you two could agree I'm wrong,
something we all know I'll never admit.

So I'll squeeze your hands
and keep quiet,
looking up towards the sky
for guidance and light,
a constant reminder
of how to find home.

Creativity can't appear
from some small recess
in your record-shattering brain,
it must be sparked
by a quick phrase plucked
from a passing conversation,
or the one-handed clock
striking two above the perfect
circle puddle filled with giggling
children breaking in new boots,
and the fresh scent left behind
by the retreating storm
sends you back
to the crowded backseat
of Pappy's Crown Vic
heading down the shore
for the best trip ever
Nana promised,
so you start to write
about first days of summer
and joyful anticipation,
because creativity demands
to be lived.

Early June in Calcutta
means packed streets
of decaying carcasses
and forlorn bodies
pulling rich people in carts.
Record-breaking heat
amplifies the smell
of curbs doubling
as urinals,
and pungent sweat
soaks our shirts
before we even leave
the rickety roof
we called home.

But when I think Calcutta
I picture sunshine
and warm masala chai,
Suporna's smile as she chews
a mashed banana treat
and Rosie's tiny hand
twisting the gold band
on my *******.
I remember thank you songs
and walking songs
that we sang at bus stops
and busy streets,
where the glisten
on our skin
was only outshined
by the sparkle in our eyes.

The perfect mix tape, you explain,
would contain equal parts 90s punk rock,
early 2000 club hits and a few
love anthems from the early rock revival
of Hair the musical--
a perfect combination of the best sounds
you've ever heard.

I think mine would include
your boyish giggle after you tell a joke,
maybe that Al Green song
we danced to all night,
your contented mmmm
right before we fell asleep,
and a constant loop of the first time
you breathed I love you.

This is where I live!
our youngest tour guide
proudly gestures
to a 6 by 6 tin hut
viciously reflecting the African heat

Inside, a sun-beaten woman rests
against four ceramic jugs brimming
with water that’s almost fresh
carried from the well we passed
a mile and a half back.

We embark on a two-step  tour
across the tiny space
where a dozen relatives sleep,
pausing at the single mattress
reserved for *ouma,
eldest in the village at 52.

Her call for questions
reverberates in silence
against the camera hanging
from my neck, and the Cliff bar
peeking out of my pocket.

Our guide kisses his mom
before closing the door,
a relieved sigh slips
through my teeth,
we march on.

My mom always told me
I was a possessor of happy tears,
so there must be something beautiful
in the pathetic irony of the girl
who pushes you away all month
and misses you on day 32.