this room
a room with a view
towering coasters littered with fireworks
a suburban landscape that grew
eighteen years
for a while I thought there was no view beyond these walls
these four barriers that hold
all of me
where I g r e w
eighteen years
from a stumbling child
with pink bows and sturdy white iron
so small in a space so large
I couldn’t fill it
I couldn’t find myself within it yet
this sea of pink frills
but
I curled up with a book every night from what I remember
and I wrote in my first every diary on this bed
and I listened to that prized stereo over and over and over
and as I blossomed this pink palace faded
change
i
changed
so that pink was torn down
and replaced with blue
and green
and purple
and for a while it remained bare
I remained bare
but as I g r e w I was marked
graffiitied
plastered
a rejection here
a death there
I was no longer solid; plain
like these walls, images appeared stuck
who I should be
where I should go
what I should wear
and soon all I saw were these walls
and myself within them
they spoke to me
sometimes in pain
other times in anger; frustration
this cave and sanctuary was my only retreat
writing on the same desk from my childhood about love lost and dreams unfulfilled
I sat in a closet covered in fabric and lost myself in stories
I dance alone facing a mirror, scrutinizing every angle

who was I?

within these walls I found a path
an acceptance
a moment well received and earned
I finally cried tears of joy
new steps, new space
new paint, remove old
images stripped away
from these barriers
red, white, brown
calm
these “barriers” slowly became
arms
they held me
during times of struggle and self-doubt and stress and fear
and I still looked in that mirror and scrutinized
and I still yearned for more of a view
and I still lay broken and heaving in this bed
but I also
g r e w
I left and came back changed one irreplaceable July summer
and
I spoke freely and bravely through the mouth of my pen
and I
smiled brightly at his face on that screen
I g r e w
eighteen years
these arms, once barriers, once only walls
hold everything
all of me
and to leave is bittersweet
for I want to stay
and curl up in this bed
and see my past selves
sitting there with me
to remind me of where I’ve come
I want to sit at that desk and hear
the incessant drumming underneath my floors
I want to hear my mother call me down for dinner
and my father’s hearty laugh
but although these arms hold me
I know they are letting me go
eighteen years
letting me go
to keep on
g r o w i n g
to return changed
but to still see
myself.

I.
my roommate is
an extended sigh
she wakes up every morning and
makes French-press coffee,
which is foreign in my household
she has a soft heart,
liked a bruised peach
and when I smoke **** in the evenings
she talks about art house films
over sautéed cucumbers
and I pretend to listen

II.
I read somewhere this morning
that you should replace all your
“I’m sorrys”
with
“thank yous”
like, instead of
“sorry I am such a mess”
it should be
“thank you for loving me unconditionally
thank you for wanting to have my name coat your tongue
thank you for refurbishing my past like an antique dresser”
I haven’t once spoken these words
since being with you

III.
I walked down College without headphones
I could hear my blood’s humming voice
I carried the same three treats I bought with you:
a brownie
a s’mores bar
a Ruffles chip marshmellow square
at Crawford, I could hear you in the box
scratching like a rat
when I got home,
I lit a candle
and ravenously ate you on my bed

my atoms

have always loved your atoms.

you caught me off guard
like a subway pulling too
quickly

out of Ossington Station

(I couldn’t ground myself)

you remind me of my last breath:
taut, slight but necessary

stay

with me

I still feel your words
growing up my spine
there are dead roses
covering my sheets from you

and although he picked them up
and wrapped new vines
around my front door
and gifted me jars filled with conversation

the tattooed pilot wings on his chest
are reminiscent of yours flying above me

I.
she scratches her back,
marking territory on translucent skin
they are of the same opacity -
as if upon meeting they scanned each other’s bones
to ensure strength
one has a way of smiling
where her lips pull against her gums
and the other has the tendency
to flip the pillow to the cold side before sleeping
they are never not entwined
they never had to get used to
two sets of bras in the dryer,
a hairbrush constantly covered with
each other’s blonde hair,
never using the condoms in their jewelry boxes
it was easy
is easy
when one asked the other
for a matching tattoo,
she put her partner’s initials on the soles of her feet

II.
the birthday party was in full swing by mid-afternoon
no one in the party had hair any lighter than charcoal
and the birthday girl was four, wearing only one shoe
all the women were clad in floral bikinis;
the ripples of their stretched skin on full display
in this circle, they honed their cultural energy
with coconut water and bongo drums
the guest of honour was passed out within an hour,
but they had come all this way
and wanted to make the most of it

III.
the night before she had found herself
entwined with a bodybuilder ten years her senior
she turned her hands over and over,
checking for signs that she had changed
but as the dog licked the inside of her legs
she was at peace with the fact that she always
belonged in a stranger’s bed
he said she felt good
and pressed welts passionately onto her ***
he wanted to take her sailing on the lake the following day
but she preferred to sit on a man-made sugared beach alone

you almost drowned that day, as we drank

in the sun by the coast. I mistook your flailing

arms for ones of praise, for the ocean smelt like safety.
I was selfishly tempting the rays to coat

me with a new skin, while she braided her salted hair and
you inhaled mouthfuls of souls lost at sea. When rescued,
all you said was:

“What a day.” And yes, the sand absorbed with ease between our toes
and the waves’ tantrum ended –
but it was the day. We became women who had to put on sunscreen

and eat three full meals and
lie in bed for a day after heartbreak.
My skin was coated with rules and reminders
and her hair was braided with questions
and your lungs inhaled fear.
We were different.

like the

Rialto, the Grand Canal flows underneath me.
Even as I hold my back

in my hands, I can no longer support my discretions.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Thirty-three.
How

did I have the space?
You would think it would be engraved across my pelvis:
“wrap it up”
before you
hold me down

I ran with lit matches as a girl,
waiting until the flame kissed my thumb and forefingers
puckered pink under the surface.
I enjoy the boils left

behind by my recklessness:
every bruise from a fence **** and
every pebble-sized bump from my head
hitting the roof of a Camaro
sat underneath my skin,
just like Lil’ A
       B
       C
and I can lie flat
as the canal rushes over.

We're like two subways passing each other in a tunnel, you and I
There are lights that dot the sides of tunnel,
attempting to guide us through,
but we hardly acknowledge them.
We can see each other in the darkness,
the subtle outline of metal,
the red and white indicators of our existence.
We're carrying so many people in our cars,
people from our past that sit in cars,
each representing different stages of who we are.
And we try and steer these subways through the dark,
searching for one another.
Yours just as full as mine.
The rickety tracks push metal against metal that ring through the hollow of our ears.
And we become distracted by this screeching,
this friction between the rails and our wheels,
and lose sight of each other.
Every station we pull into -
Museum, Queen's Park, St. Patrick -
we expect to catch a glimpse of one another -
going in opposite directions but comforted by the fact that we are in the same station.
We might pick up the same passenger but at different locations,
at different times.
Our paths cross haphazardly.
But I keep wishing that one day
all the lights will point towards me,
and your wheels will stop inches from mine.
And you will look into my cars
and see all those people that have made me,
and I will look into your cars and see all the people that made you
and you will realize
and you will say
"I don't want to keep going from station to station.
I've found my passenger."

sweater
sweet
"you taste it"
sweet
I feel it with you
as I am enveloped in this sweater that
smells
feels
tastes
breathes
like you
comforting and warm, like you
woven and fragile, like you
itchy and scratchy, like you
like
you
if I could wear this sweater forever I would
to be held by the very fabric that has hugged your person that has hugged me
that I long for
that I think of as I remember that this is the first thing I put on after you felt me
all of me, with you
that this was the first thing you let me have, and take
that this was what you trusted me with
your Christmas sweater
what I put on for reassurance
that you want me and need me
what I put on for safety
when I feel like I'm losing it
I'm falling now though
in this sweater
backwards into that ocean
and I'm scared, sweater
that as days pass he loses me
that his image of me fades and drifts away
that he forgets the sound of my voice
that my touch on his body has evaporated
sweater, I want to hold him as he does me
this image in my mind of his smirk
his lanky but grand stature
his sturdy hands and brittle nails
his smell of Old Spice
his blonde bed head
I want to hold it all
and I want to hear it all, sweater
how he used to light everything in his path on fire as a child
how he owns a mug with his face on it as a little boy
how he lost it all to one person, like me
sweater I can feel myself falling
I'm losing my balance
I can't stand
I'm trying to protect my heart because I'm afraid to let it go
but a part of me fears I already have
and it's lost
in his arms
bare and bleeding
and yet here I am
wearing his sweater
alone and yearning.

the first

time I taste it is on the subway going southbound to Osgoode Station,

red as sweet and sour sauce, incandescent and pure.
You hold it to my

lips and watch as I inhale its bitter air.
The last time is one hour ago,
when you push me to my knees and force

it down my throat.
It tastes like cotton.
You look at me with eyes like a disapproving parent
and I scrape away to its core.
I feel

the acid slide down my throat as you shove me
over the couch and watch me writhe.
Your serpent.
I wear the same blue and yellow dress as the subway ride.
It gathers at my hips now,
as I clutch at my throat
and look at my prince.

bare chested and open to the sky, I wish I knew what

it felt like to see the future. At this moment, all I know

is that the rocks are making grooves in my shoulder blades
and my ******* may very well be burning. It’s time to turn

over; try facing the earth and be captivated by ants
traipsing across the rock.
Minutae.
Mundane.
The tide may swell over and engulf me, fresh, to rock me gently

maybe underwater I’ll catch a glimpse of strong words
or the place where I die.
I’ll see my lover amongst the seaweed
and our children laying in shells.
But on my back, by this

sea, I hear friends praising each other in French
and see the sun’s outline when I close my eyes.
I am still 23 with purple fingernails and shaved legs.
I am no closer to the water.

The

parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me

you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you

open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.

I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked

to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”

today,
while waiting for the 8th Avenue train
a woman with a straw hat and a shopping cart told me:
“Today is going to be a good day for you”
and for once,
in a long time,
I believed her
I believed I no longer had to sit alone with my thoughts in my Davisville apartment
I believed I could walk down 9th to 34th and 35th and 36th and not shatter into a million pieces
I believed I could finally find myself as a whole
and not pieces:
my upper lip on Queens Quay,
or my right elbow on King,
or my grafted skin on College
no,
here, I am one
I am everything that has happened to me
and everything that will happen
I can speak uncensored at the little ******* the train with a yellow sundress
I can leave my laughter echoing across Brooklyn
and my breath floating on my favourite rock in Central Park
I can pass people on Lexington and not break eye contact –
because I want them to look at me
I want them to see me, all of me
and all I am worth
because no one knows me here
and it is so exhilarating to know that they can know me
all of me,
uninhibited
not carrying ten or eleven or twelve bags’ worth of past anguish on all my limbs
they see me here
my soul is alive here
amidst the millions
for too long I have searched for a place of solace and strength
and if you had asked me three years ago if I loved it here
I would rip my hair to shreds and close my eyes and think of home,
Toronto,
but now
if you asked me:
where is home?
if you asked me:
where are you yourself?
if you asked me:
where are you the most happy?
light blue and yellow light streams across my face
and I breath a little easier
and I sit a little taller and I say:
New York City
because on hundred year old streets
clustered with thousands of strangers
surrounded by words from all over the world
I have found myself.

I want to fill your mouth with pennies

I’ll pull your intestines out with my teeth

your hands are cacti,
your eyes rolled backward
like your rolling papers over kush

I am a cricket,
you are a size 11 shoe

I am click bait for your insecurities:

“self-deprecating,
emotionally vulnerable Canadian
seeks love and fidelity”

am I enticing?

I sat at your window and waited
to see you come up the drive

I am fiction

at the lake where I spent my childhood
you pressed your cheek to the sand

as I held the hand of my 6-year-old self in the water

you left yourself in my mouth
and I am still picking out your remnants
from my teeth

I see no better solution

than to hack away at my joints

and mail them to you

with the note,

“I share this with you”

king of the sea,
with a rigorous exoskeleton peeling away
moulting causes such distress,
exposed to the thrashing undertow of the sea
and enemies

who protects you?
a callow arthropod poised on fractured shells

it isn’t your father,
balancing a bottle of brandy between his lips
or your confidant,
skidding his tires across your mind

a starfish tried,
she threw her arms round your shell
as you added new muscles underneath
she stuck her tube feet in her claws
as you brittled her skin
she said I love you
and you retreated

when you are 70
and clamouring the floor
put your arms behind your back to beckon her to you
try –
she is the sea and no one owns her.

based on the painting “Loving Bewick” by Paula Rego

He would feed me sardines perched above me
every night before we ****** in the big white lighthouse

I never bled more than I did that summer;
his beak digging into my back as I pulled handfuls

of feathers – but I loved the thrashing of his wings
and the uneven wood beneath my arched back.
He covered me when

we finished and I could smell the oceans he had swam
over on his neck. In the morning, he would open his gull and I

climbed inside as he flew me back to the city.
He would never let me sit atop his back to see
the flush of green or the meeting of mountains. Only inside

his mouth did I belong. I wished more than anything to be
a sardine – to be dangled above others, to have their adoration
proved to me before I slid between their teeth forever.

my favourite

part about being drunk is when
I hold the end of a cigarette by the flame
it doesn’t burn my fingers

I am invincible

I love when I’m drunk
and you weave your fingertips through
the holes in my tights

close but not enough

if I’m drunk enough I’ll let you
walk me back to your apartment in Bushwick

the hallways looking
like The Overlook Hotel

while you push me onto your bed and tell me
all you want to do is lay naked next to me

next thing you know I am your outlet

I am a thousand resonating nos

mine is every body you’ve ever wanted
covered with glass

and you wind my hair around your palm
and I am drunk
off the New York skyline
off the back of an Audi
off a taco truck in a bar

that I submit
and I beg you
to fill all my holes

5 8 15 20 24 29
SoHo seems nice this time
of year; although I am terrified of going
anywhere near a city that holds you in its hands and above me, too high
to me, you are New York. but when I walk down Central Park West my shadow clings to my shins
you scrape my skin with your breath and I feel hot July air that is trapped between your buildings – these subways are too stifling
I will let you lift up my skirt like he did, but only because I know that it’ll rain heavily the Chelsea Pier after.

1 17 23 25 41 47
Churchill
I think my eyes are permanently squinted; agonizing over the shape of your eyes and how they
relate to mine – even in the light you’re missing pieces, your rocks are crumbling away, you are sand – your grains hold words –
unmentionable, special, temptress, miss, you, nothing, work, in my dreams, diffuse, instantly, affection, with, you, stuck, darling, attention, far, vivid, feather, waking, wasted, sweet dreams, worth, wish, awake
I always feel my conscious wrap her delicate hands firmly around my throat and pour salt water into my eyes when you are in front of a screen, in front of me – I think maybe I should cut pieces of me
could I mail them to New York? to SoHo? you can curl up with them in bed and try to find the grooves where you fit in, or just fry me on the grill. Ideally, you should consume me so that I may never leave. only if –

15 18 30 32 40 42
I’ve been pinching and piercing my skin to prevent me from crying more often than
I sleep. I know it’s morbid and dramatic but being slaughtered by tears is not how I want
to spend my Saturday night. I’d rather see Basquiat on a wall or short films screened while I watch you instead. I would walk until my legs gave out and
trace one single finger along your spine. And here I am, grasping my skin between my fingers and pinching, squeezing you out – I can just scrape the excess off after you’re gone
tomorrow I plan on eating as many seeds as I can to grow flowers in my throat and have them sprout past my eyes so all I see are petals. They’ve been missing for a while. The weeds still cover
my stomach. If only when I thought of you I thought of flowers. Most of the time I see a hand reaching through the thickest fog. As I reach for you, all I hear are 35 words that cover me.

I. Café
the waiter has the kindest eyes
when he goes home after his shift he probably finds coffee beans tucked into his pockets
the whirring of the machine doesn't faze him as it did when he first started
he has become accustomed to the grooves of wood and the abstract art above the bar
he glances at the clock every hour on the hour, counting down the minutes until he is released
catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror is a reminder he exists
every time I see myself in it, my eyes disappear from reflection
I wish I spoke Portuguese – these tourists behind me make me embarrassed to be English:
man, loudly: She wants ORANGE JUICE!
waiter nods – such patience
for a moment I think of what it would be like to go downstairs to the restaurant
past the mahogany wood and chessboard floor
and **** on one of the tables
the next patrons would have no idea they were eating off of passion and stunted breath
“Enjoy: homesickness tossed with overwhelming contentment and a dressing of lust.”
I could drink every bottle of Campari, Bacardi and Jameson lining the wall and I still wouldn't have the courage to tell him how kind I think his eyes are
I really want him to drape me over the golden chandelier so I can be reminded of what it feels like to have an all-seeing eye
he has such routine with the way he places sugar packets on plates and lays them down for sleep-deprived and cranky patrons
maybe I should've ordered something
we should have an object at each corner of the octagon table – a spell, a hex
I need to be fed pastries to continue breathing
I would like for him to walk me home
it's just around the corner and I know its name and number are marked on the street but I have a terrible sense of direction
one false turn and I may end up in the water
and I won't ever see the waiter’s kind eyes again.

II. Ruins
if you held me the way you held that camera I'd melt into an exalted sigh
you told me you only take pictures of things you love but you never took any of me
I mean, I know the height and decomposition of this building is breathtaking but I could give you some air if you kissed me by the rusted trellis
your orange sunglasses look ridiculous
I would rather drape you in a cloak, like the Statue of St. John Nepomucene
two bells, like us, drone
as you speak, the sound of the Chinese couple is louder:
“We should go into this room… filled with artefacts…”
“No, here, let's stay…”
******* for saying you're leaving.
I have the urge to pound you with one of those rocks on a ledge so you are trapped here
“Can you imagine this place filled with people?”
you wouldn't belong anyway
you have no affinity for red tiles scattered amongst grey
or the all-encompassing silence of the venue
there is a concrete slab on the left where I could lay you down and take off those glasses
and pour myself into you
so you would take pictures of me
so you wouldn't move to New York
I can't fathom people filling this place
because it should really house two souls instead.

III. Mirador
the number on the floor by the fountain is the amount of times I've said no to you while standing out here
I'll tag another 0 on, just to be safe
the red roofs look like my skin after I've sat all day at the beach at Sperlonga
you almost drowned
your footsteps on the gravel are ominous and even when I look through the telescope I can't see you
I pick a point on the horizon – the blue cubist building; the odd one out – and stare blankly
that guitarist playing “Oh Darling” reminds me of the first time you called me that and I want to smash it so violently
I find myself staring at the trio of scruffy young bearded men instead of you
“What are you saying?! It was at least this big…” one of them says.
he looks like you but the you before you moved to New York
you lean on the upside down heart iron fence and say for the 15th time that you still love me
I'm pushing you over the fence now onto the path below
the garden will still look lovely after you fall
instead I pick another building – pink with white windows and a black roof – and stare
it blinks its eyes and speaks: “Leave.”
you're in the middle of saying how much you loved the fish last night and I break:
“I'm gone.”

I saw two grown men cry this week.

heaving their bodies, weighted with wails

my father with guilt burrowed in his gut
live streams his tears asking anyone for
answers to fix his sick son

my lover wishing to be shattered into dust,
logging each passing thought in emails
parceled with regret

I carry them;
I bundle and swaddle and embrace

I light three matches for each of us,
the flame kissing my index finger

we are one

in the ember I hear

we have taken only one family vacation
I wanted to cut off my finger and send it to you
you promised to protect me

my father is martyred
my love is sleepless
these are my men

and although this week I have had
black thread weaved underneath my skin

and I have carved out my name in my stomach
with worry

and I have been swallowed whole by the memory of
my favourite small town in Long Island

he is black
he is in a drought
he is marred too

bubble up to

the surface.
your perforated skin swallows
my wayward tears
I sit in vivacious waters;
your eyes my captain.
your

beauty is kinetic – yet stillness becomes you.
I’ll read one more poem before you uncover the core
of my shriveled

skin
each time we step in, our waters are forgiving –
scorching only patches of us while I rub out the redness with ScarGuard
in our waters:

you grow three bubble beards
and I
submerge myself under running taps
and we coat our lips with soap to press against each other

your every angle catches light

I’ll swaddle you in terrycloth and carry you
to save you from the raging jets –
our former trysts swirling down the drain
kiss me so the heated water will go from you to me
I’ll disappear beneath the surface to guide you up

find my tender hands in this hollowed mould

possesses a stillness I am jealous of
it is, simply
no questions or concerns as to how or why it came to be
it breathes freely,
"here I am, take me or leave me"

if only I could be what water is:
rapid, brave, moving with purpose
most times I sit between states of movement and stillness
and even as it changes, water,
it does so unapologetically
it is so sure of itself
as it transforms to snow
or boils under pressure
it makes the choice to move
to constantly transform and shift

I want to be as clear as water:
open and vulnerable
not vapid and transparent
when people see water they can see what’s beneath the surface,
but not far enough to the bottom
leaving the sand or swamp or pool tiles to conceal the truth
I wish when I held water between my hands
that the truth would stay behind
everything else would fall away
and I would hold that small piece of truth in my hands

water is cleansing and pure and uninhibited
and so I want to be the same
smelling like rain and winter simultaneously
to burn and yet also wash
to freeze time and space
to fill every vessel I inhabit and be safe

now I feel as though I am a
waterfall,
a riptide,
a tsunami,
raging and wrecking,
unable to contain my shape
I want to be a spring,
a stream,
or a fountain,
where people look for solace and don’t run in fear
where I am admired and gathered around
and not avoided for fear of drowning
I want to catch sunlight on the surface of my skin and reflect a prism of colours,
not a shadow of darkness and doubt
I want someone to drink me in and consume me,
and not boil me in a *** to evaporate

let me flow
let me course
let me land
watch me transform
but don’t let me freeze.

I dreamt of you last night
my room was bright, bursting with sunshine
my window open, letting in sounds of a match outside
strangers in my room
but you called
"I have to tell you something
I think you're my soulmate
we were meant to meet
that sticky summer
when I burned at the sun's touch
and you beamed with your bright eyes
and I love you
and I want all of you."
and stunned I only said
"you are the same for me."
I asked how you were
and barely made out your response because the noises outside drowned you out
and I tried to find somewhere quiet
because I haven't heard your voice in three years
I haven't placed my hand in yours for three years
I haven't felt you near for three years
it feels like eternity
like time was stretched over the miles and ocean and land that have separated us for three years
and how often do I think of you
the hint of home in your voice
the tightness of your hold
you, leaning across a table to kiss every feature on my face
I was becoming myself
three years
both gaining and losing control
both seeing and shielding my reality
running to and from myself
and you were there
and I became yours
and I was safe,
finally
and sometimes when I walk
without purpose
down College
or Bathurst
or King
or Richmond
I see you
hovering in doorsteps
and watching on corners
and I hear your roots in your voice
your roundedness
and I am safe
and how I wish you could ground me now
my roots are pulling themselves from the earth
my trunk is decaying
and my leaves fall dead on the ground
I am no longer safe from being cut
all I want is for you to plant me again
as you did three years ago
and water
and feed
and shed light on me
because you were a time when I was happy
you were the broadest smile on my face
you were the lightest air that brushed past me
so when the noise from outside my window masked your voice
I ran to the closet and closed the door
because you are my reminder
that I am loved
that I am thought of
that I am whole.

I.
I think you would look brighter with a fresh coat of paint –
a pale blue would suit
your face looks red,
like someone described to you
how you looked in your skimpiest underwear,
like he used to say how much he loved
pushing down on your hips,
melting you into your aqua sheets

II.
the cherry blossoms look promising this time of year
I feel a longing to chop them down
and press them into all the books I own
I promise you that I will comb my hair 100 times in return
I will iron out the stretch marks on my skin –
I won’t pull at it, I promise!
stay vibrant

III.
in the middle of the night,
while I am surrounded by strangers,
home will call and exclaim:
I made fresh scones
and the smell followed me all the way to the top of the tower!
and
I finally took two steps
towards the German shepherd
that terrorizes me on the way
to Christie Pits!
and
he told me my eyes were like
the blue of his favourite childhood jean jacket –
he told me I felt like home.

IV.
my two brothers might have long, swaying limbs when I touch down
mom’s arms might wrap three times around me
she will say,
“I love your peonies growing the length of your spine”
and water them as I lie on my stomach
dad will have feet made of concrete
but his body will still be like palm leaves
I will have to laugh at my own jokes
and ice my own bruised knees
for a while

V.
above all, I wish for the following:
sturdy legs that don’t give out after I’ve walked the length of a strange station
searching for a runaway train
a glimmer from the sweet Parisian rain and the blissful Spanish sun
a new set of lenses with broad castles and rough cliffs and extensive oceans
a jar full of foreign voices, bright smiles, truths
and the fullest heart –
I hope to find me.