A Small Ecosystem

For years I’ve lived a foreign dream

Images from my past

pressed between pages of a book

tucked beneath covers to keep watch as a I sleep

Years have blurred the faces

and now I cannot recall who

I already know or

where I’ve been before

I walk to the grocery store

on days when I ache for humid summers

the place where my childhood lays buried in the dirt

under the comfort of a dogwood tree

I peruse the aisles in search of beers brewed in America

I run my fingers over the labels and think

Too bad they don’t sell these bottles in dollars

I might feel less alone

I’m not sad

but lately the gap

between empty and filled

has become narrow

There’s a tapping in my heart and it won’t stop

I distract myself with mindless tasks

the floors are swept and

I’m learning to drive on the wrong side of the road

On the walk back to my building

I watch the sunset wash across the horizon

The last rays of the sun pierce the clouds

They blanket the sky

The stars remind me of my brother

his love for them is wide

We all wish to rise like the corporate ghosts

stretched tall as gods

I belong in the liminal space

where water meets the air — a biofilm of sorts

where life teams in ways we cannot see

where each organism races to live, to be