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.