With not enough tomorrows

to go round

and all yesterdays

in short supply

with today in flight,

morning

parted from

night, I lie down

in my body

and reach towards my soul as thin as rice paper,

the map of my being – Hieroglyphic –

pressed into my bones

Not as tattoo, but as marrow

made flesh,

doubly sad in its persistence

I am Dolakha

twice removed from its beginnings

I am Sindhupalchowk

And my soul reaches out towards me

I am Langtang

Its tomorrows stacked up

Ashen and cold

May 29, 2015