My city rises from within,
in me,
around me,
filling everything up.
It’s stronger than any known force in the range:
White noise, television decibels,
the whistling pressure cooker,
the shouts of the vegetable vendor,
and other Sunday concerns hovering overhead and around.
The metaphor of water,
and the guilt of its knowledge,
rising slowly up, touching the skin every inch up
and the skin registering it all
closely, completely, clearly –
translated to the abstract,
of a slow and sure rise
of memories, thoughts and emotions.
It may have happened with many other losses,
but happened with only one loss of mine:
of my home, my city, my place.