leaves

leaves

on your heart

break

on mine

on your heart

anachronistic maple

on mine

words i cannot speak

out of time maple

in the Caribbean

words i cannot speak

on my chest

in the Caribbean

where leaves don’t fall

on my chest

but our skin does

don’t fall

don’t break

but our skin does

leaves

Anatopistic. Where it says anachronistic in the poem it should say anatopistic. Not out of time but out of place. The maple leaves on my father’s shirt from a trip to Niagra Falls are out of place on a beach in Anguilla where a maple tree will probably never grow. But I actually mean out of time. This poem is about what it means to be out of time when I want more time in my father’s arms. So yes. Anachronistic. Subject to time and out of it. Like a deciduous tree, seasonal, the leaves will eventually fall. Out of place in Anguilla where the palms and seagrapes and dried seaweed at the shoreline this close to the equator are not interested in the tempering of seasons. They have their own renewal timeline. The palms will wait a generation and then the low branches will dry out with dreams of becoming someone’s thatch. The seagrapes will strengthen themselves with salt. The ocean has already let go the seaweed dried up on the shore. It is just me, not letting go. Out of place in the place I want to be. Staying in place by running out of time. My mother took these photographs and made everyone squint into the sun to get us like this, in the best light, which it turns out is more light than we can bear. The slight glare is not from her camera but from my digitization. For now, I’ll keep it that way. Grainy dissolve texture over my baby hair. Temporary as a kiss.

P.S. My every day writing practice shapes my days into vessels for generations of love. If you want support with your own daily creative practice, I’d love to be part of your journey. This is the Stardust and Salt Daily Creative Practice Intensive.