Then comes October:
almost sowing season for
the rice field my father left
behind. In the front yard
our sunflower looks up to
its namesake a little harder,
its stalk heavier than sins.
We all wake up to wet dirt
and puddles. Last night
it rained and, my mother
said, with every drop of
it angels in the sky took
note of human reverence.
May each prayer be granted.
I’m listening to Attarazat
Addahabia’s rendition of
Für Elise, thinking about
love again, humming in
poor Arabic as I wait for my
time, any time. If, eventually,
I didn’t etherify on account
of filial grief, then I would
of the plague or politics.
Too seraphic of me to say
I have found love on a planet
doomed to stoop on a lifeless
folding; too malefic I have not.
Thinking about love again
is thinking about life again
is thinking about death again.
So little dignity in wanting it,
perhaps even less when being
in it. My father seemed ready
to die because, when shouldered
by four young men as if a hearse
walking from our home toward
his grave, my brothers said the
coffin felt light. He received
his time with grace; dignified
exit, blissful. The problem
with apocalypse is that it’s
slow. Boring and still unjust.
Not a meteor strike. I want
to hold everyone I miss so
I become easier to carry
tomorrow. I want to sow
when possible, and rotate
the sunflower pot facing
outside. I want love and
I want life and sometimes
I do want death a little but
not this way. I still want to
unfold with peace, at least.
O angels, let it find me back.
Innas Tsuroiya is a poet and writer living in Indonesia. Her work appeared in Guernica, Michigan Quarterly Review, Running Dog, Wax Nine Journal, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, among others.