Storage and Moth Balls

My museum

Is the subtle keepsakes

In my baba’s house

Where chairs are used to hold old hammers and books

And plates used to subdue incense

I pull out a book

Full with the smells of moth balls and storage

I can’t read everything it says

But I scan the pages and see

Arrays of writing

That look like little artifacts and paintings

Curated by a secret society

I feel the texture of the writing

It jumps from the pages

I ask my dad what it says

He says, as he fries bora in a pan as old as him,

“Bangladeshi liberation”

As incomplete as the translation is

It’s enough to piece together the feeling I get

When I grace my hands over the letters

The few names in English cut the page like voltages

But they are softened by the gentle mosaics that surround it

I look through

My baba’s scattered storage

Any time I want to move from translation

To understanding