homeland burning

rain through the eyes of many

the rain

through the eyes of a six year old girl:

she says to me,

"chechi, these are the tears of our god."

"is that so?" i respond, squinting against the water. "and why is our god crying?"

"i don't know, chechi, why is he crying?"

i glance up.

it is a goddamn monsoon today.

-

the rain

through the eyes of my mother

she looks wistfully out the window

while scrubbing a charred pot with cinnamon fingers

upstairs under the queen sized bed with the lemon covers

she has a green suitcase full of poetry, mostly about rain

half of it bleeds ink, half of it has holes from an old journey across an ocean

so little of it is still legible.

-

i go out, sit crosslegged on tiles the color of summer jam

a gold butterfly drowns in the rain

outside the village, i hear someone wailing

someone singing

somewhere, a mockingbird chirps in the trees

"god is crying, chechi," says my six year old cousin. "why is he crying?"

"because his people have forgotten the past."

"one tear for every person that forgot the past," she says matter-of-factly

 i glance up.

well

it is a goddamn monsoon today.