More daunting still

At the bottom of my bathroom sink, six ants hustle then wait in vain

searching for a way out. I feel like that often. Scratching around for

the familiar; in vain retracing steps to the mother-land-tongue. In

dreams I don’t need clothes and live in a waterhole where fish and

birds, mothers and fathers speak to me clearly and I to them. We

bridge each other. Awake I am bereft and language is especially of no

help. Thoughts swell gathering toward breath but the words shrivel back

yet unformed. I stare at you mama, mama, mama, waiting for a word

to bring me closer to you, wishing for the time before parrots ate my

tongue. Longing is a long dark corridor with no windows. Esophagus

leads to stomach and its pit bulges surrendering to the aching reach of

what we’ve lost. The hoarder fills drawers with socks and when all

the drawers get filled then fills garages with televisions, lawn mowers,

towels, sweaters. Anything. The ants want to return home. I do too.

When in darkness I find the Rosary sometimes helps. Vanity even so.

Oh pernicious, malicious, delicious Vanity. What will it be?

Raisin Rage or Mexican Rose on my lips this morning?