We walk together sharing neither language nor culture,
speaking with hands, moving as if sign language.
You pluck blossoms from my hair, blow them from your hands
and embrace me for the first time under those cherry trees.
Back home trees do not weep pink, but fling gold, crimson, and orange
on paved streets. I wanted to gather and stuff them
in an envelope, between a cream-coloured letter.
A monogram stamped on the other side of the world, but my hands
still wrung through the dry fire of the season: My dear, how are you?
by Sonia Saikaley
Editor’s Note: Longing is universal. In this poem, there are layers upon layers of it, delicately balanced within the imagery and the narrative in such a way that the reader is left longing, too.
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