Kenneth Godoy sits with me and a few others around a small table every Friday, discussing the weighty subjects of Migration and Diaspora. He also happens to be one of my favorite poets and photographers. This poem is his. *** Who is responsible for the dead people on the Aegean. The women from Syria and […]
I am home. I sit in the library in Ladysmith, Wisconsin, looking out the window at the snow and melting ice. Home is good. My brothers picked me up from the airport, and the minute we entered Rusk County, I felt the silence of the place—silence laid out like carpet, swathed in snow and sky.
Tears come to my grandma’s eyes when she tells us goodbye and thanks us for coming to visit. “I’m not worthy,” she says. Silly Grandma. We have visited her seldom, far less often than she deserves. She probably won’t last much longer now, my aunts tell us. Her kidneys are failing, and she won’t go
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In the black of before-six this morning, I woke riveted by a thought. I grew up in a culture of gratitude. At home, at church, I always heard, “Thank you.” Thank you for what You’ve given us. Thank you for the abundance of clothes and food we have which so many people don’t. Thank you
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My mom is the one who smiles at strangers. Genuine, from her eyes smiles—and they respond. My dad barks at dogs in the streets. Not quiet, tentative barking—loud listen-up yapping. The dog owners ignore him and the dogs usually do, too. He notices people, asks strangers random questions like, “Are you pretty good with that
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