109 by Anisa Maya Dhanji
/109
i remember how much the magnolia
tree bloomed in spring
at the end of our backyard
learning how to climb her
springing over the fence
slamming my palms on the brick pavement
and racing down the hot alley.
the seasons have lost me.
soon i slip into a cold memory
an early morning
here, i think is
where i hold myself at the end of my
bed as he sets ma’s clothes on fire
it was here, i left the muslim in
my name at the table when
i was 5 years old
watching the towers fall on
the kitchen television.
forgive me for
leaving her there all those years.
i can move more gently
even in the hard places
even in the old places.
i am telling you where i come from and
i am telling you where i am going
with this grief
a tree, with new leaves unfolding.
i think i am homesick
for her, grieving as
my fingers trace the burned carpet
before i leave.
this is the skin that houses these ghosts,
it is the only thing i have left
it makes a home in me
i give it room to grow, just enough
to lull a gentle mess
in spring.
Anisa (she/they) is a racially-mixed and neurodivergent settler Canadian residing on stolen Qayqayt lands. She uses diverse mediums to create art about the landscapes of identity and memory, and the heartwork of love and relationships. You can find Anisa drifting in and out of the present tense, but when she isn’t teaching, floristing or daydreaming, she enjoys the company of these coasts’s airs, trees and waters that rightfully belong to, and are cared for by the Coast Salish Peoples.