No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
Since then, thirteen years have passed, and even though we hadn’t been in any contact during that period, I never completely erased Despina from my memory. Her face and body cropped up in my head during many sleepless nights and gradually she became my most precious phantasy, helping me to survive my gloomy days. I couldn’t shake off the divine reminisces of the first few weeks with her and until today, I still think of this brief time stretch as the best of my life.
Entangled leaves and roots fighting for existence as if they somehow knew beyond what they experience significance ends.
the iron gate creaks in the dark dawn breeze and I hear, ‘Ma is nowhere. Daddy, ma is nowhere.’
Mama never told me how to do anything. She modeled. She said if I was anything like her, I didn’t need anyone to tell me what to do, because when that happened with her—and people were always telling her what to do—she did the opposite.
April 7th, 12:10 am.