From Empire: Dispersal Triolet

9

The memory of home is ultimately a construct of the mind*
I read these lines aloud and trail my hand along the windowsill.
My fingers gather dust, the scent of citrus oil, the fine-
sieved memories of home I have constructed in my mind—
Yellowed paper on which a faded visage floats, still kind:
I make up stories for the ones I’ll never know, distill
a memory of home that’s ultimately a construct of the mind—
I read these lines aloud and trail my hand along the windowsill.

*after Tina Chang

 

In response to Via Negativa: Sad Money.

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