it ends my sleep to want my story about my skin melting in the sun that day of summer and a doctor who tells me i am dying, that thing i hide under my nails like dirt scratched from summer skin. so i pick up a pencil and begin to erase myself. erasure is sometimes editing. immigration is always editing. * my father with the heart that chokes him in his sleep, in his shorter and shorter walks around concrete and glass sculptures, around mother who keeps leaning one way then the other at the precipice of fall as he yells promises at her to keep her alive. in this journey that began with his misstep across waters and languages and his hands on my face teaching me to long how did he mean to rewrite me— * what will i say to the sky and the soil neither foreign or home when they are all gone leaving me to hold our name up alone when i am neither tree nor fire. * in the mirror i look for my head that has begun to shake, the weight of how much i am afraid, how it makes me look like mother when i was a boy—seeing it for the first time in her, demanding she make it stop— * this fear of sleep has kept me up for years did you know? because in dreams there is always a point when your mother dies while you are traveling through space searching for your lost child and other such possibilities. * i spent the day moving my body, guided by a stranger’s voice and somewhere on the floor my bones recognized pain told me that in this too / (that is my body) there are borders to cross there are borders not meant to cross * interstitial—it’s a new word i learned something about the space between things, but it is obvious like my body that wants to break, that space is the thing not the between, the mass that cannot be occupied a space between spaces that tell me i am a child of none * i capture my hand grasping at the sky outside the window of another plane in mid-flight. it was orange. it wasn’t anything. and the hand belonged to no one. there was only the reaching.