for Deon I peer at the ridges of your palm rested along the crevice of mine, while tracing your jagged vasculature with a delicate press of my finger, and I explore every uneven wrinkle, every pronounced callus, every rounded mole like it is the hilly, stone-ridden backyard of my childhood home in Mongmong. I know this place. I have been here before. I read the swirls inscribed into your firm dark skin, sound out each node and connecting branch, sew syllables into words that spell out gima’: home. I raise your hand transposed against the evening sky, clear of clouds, and I can find the constellations within you. Did you know our forefathers did this at sea— placed their arm to the heavens to translate the stars? Master navigators of the open ocean, yet you, my love, are more than a map; I dare not fold nor decipher your complexity. You are the beloved, longed-for destination at the end of the journey, the place that our ancestors craved return, the reason for the expedition—refuge, promise, hope. You are home. |
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