A STRANGER IN BOSTON

a stranger in boston

there are places where you feel love pass through you like a gust of autumn wind in search of leaves to guide home. it’s warm, it’s soft, it’s love. That four-letter word that isn’t often big. sometimes it’s so small, so quiet and shy, cowering in the corner just waiting. but you know it’s there. it’s in each hand-painted plate, each mismatched fork, each refrigerator magnet, each photo, each empty wine bottle, and every type of cheese.

it’s in the way you pour yourself a glass of water. the way you steep your tea in a very precise way. the way the dog greets you at the door every day. it’s in every “have you eaten today?” “how are you feeling?” “let’s go for a walk.” “i can’t stop thinking about that movie we watched last night.”

it surrounds you in every room, every corner. so you sit back and watch. you swallow every unpleasant memory and any feeling of envy, and you just watch and listen. you learn about the tender gravity of kindness and family, and how you can never have one without the other. how your hand alone can carry memories to last ten lifetimes. you nearly cry at the softness of it all. you have a feeling that love is never lost here. always with purpose, without begging for it.

what does my regret taste like?

Well, i am my mother’s child.
her eyes, her smile, her laughter, her love, her fears, her aspirations,
and most of all, her anger.
i am everything i wish i wasn’t
and all I am is this --
restless, hateful, unhinged, with just a bit of magic.
because you need magic to bloom in dried desserts.
you need magic when the fog is where you’re most comfortable.

i am my mother's anger, and i bloom in cracked walls,
broken plates, red cheeks, open hands, and dark eyes.
and far away from earth, i like to watch us closely
and analyze. criticize. despise.

i am my mother's child,
the unwanted and lost.
and the best parts of me are gone before i could meet them

if i stop moving, i rot.
i apologize to others but never to myself.
i am too much yet not enough.
and though i never stop moving, i am still a stone,
with generations upon generations fossilizing inside me
fueling this violent emptiness.

all i am. all she is. all he is. all we are.
all we are is this.
a fistful of anger and regret holding a basket of pain.
it’s magical.
it tastes just like magic.

at home

it’s the spring of smoky clouds and midday naps,
sleeping whenever feeling gets too much, nightmares ,and blunts,
bathroom counter messes and 3 cups of coffee by 1 pm.
i’m afraid i’ve turned myself inside out
and back again, trying to get comfortable.
and i got too comfortable for a while there.

while the world moves in earshot,
while the moon overshadows the sun per a prior agreement between the two.
and there are heathers and bluebonnets
and everything spring has to offer after an inconsiderate winter.
and i am extremely ungrateful.

then came the rain, so much of it.
it taught me not to envy anything.
because another season is gone,
another year, another decade.
this is what living is.
and from the moment we’re born, we’re dying.
the tide comes back to take us each out to sea in merits of pity.

time slips through a rotation of nightmares and nightmares and blood colored glasses and soft god, a husk god asking why i gave it all away. i’m sorry, and can i have it back? before time escapes me. before i start chasing aimlessly.

i know i am just a visitor here, but i would like to feel at home someday soon.

Leika Moly Dickens is a Haitian-born poet and fiction writer. She’s self-published two poetry books and is currently working on a collection of short stories.