With not enough tomorrows

to go round

and all yesterdays

in short supply

with today in flight,


parted from

night, I lie down

in my body

and reach towards my soul as thin as rice paper,

the map of my being –Hieroglyphic–

pressed into my bones

Not as tattoo, but as marrow

made flesh,

doubly sad in its persistence

I am Dolakha

twice removed from its beginnings

I am Sindapalchowk

And my soul reaches out towards me

I am Langtang

Its tomorrows stacked up

Ashen and cold

May 29, 2015


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