Mayalu Press

Now that I know, who do I tell?

I ran towards the
barren fields that Appa tilled
as a child and wept

I never spent time
with him I always felt like
a witness, too lost

to find a tired man
whose life was falling apart
He was a harsh man.

He was a harsh man.
He was a hard man to know,
a hard man to love.

Though, now I know it
was all for Enisu and
Sampa, Cimita

Aruko, and me
but if you never let the
children inside, all

we’ll know is how to
run towards our corner in
the hovel, the room

where you sadly are
too big, too proud to be and
now that we’ve grown up,

no one can be there
anymore. I don’t know how
he could have made us

strong to survive and
still given us a shot to
be soft children who

know how to smile for
a family photo by
the same fire that burned

our hovel down but
I know that if he had, I
wouldn’t have run to

the barren fields that
he tilled as a child just to
see if I still feel

I wouldn’t have run
from everyone who tried to
hold, tried to love— me.

~ Ekoro Tamang

Hold the door

Sometimes I need to write and it’s because I know things are about to change, I’m changing.
I was thinking about this place, where I wait by the door with my shoes on.

Then the kids on the bus are kneeling on the seats, screaming about the view, pointing out the sea and the boats, grinning, eyes big circles, crying. And the firefighters, and the cars.

The magnolias. I’m crying because they’re so excited and overwhelmed, because they’re kids, because of what I heard yesterday, because of kids and their softness, the responsibility. Kneeling on the seats, hanging on the windows, seeing the whole world, about to change.

— Juni Kieri