Here I have never felt either the tenderness
of the mother-tongue or the support
of any tradition other than civil
war, just where for me the past begins.
- Joan Margarit
Through the windows of the cafe
I am dissecting the industrial landscape of my city -
there are cranes in the river, probably
waiting for a command to build something
which will never be used.
Like this mall, left almost empty. No one is renting.
My home is deteriorating into
skeletons of unfinished buildings, their teeth becoming
sharper each night.
The neurotic waitress stirring my tea
is mixing
chamomile honey home
exile,
and when she goes back to
telling the people on the other table that they need to learn some patience
I almost can't bear to sit in this cafe anymore, and yet
I stay and think about my foreign eyes on all this
and how harsh my judgement has become.
My first sip of my tea finds me
back in the old playground from my childhood
where we used to play a game called
cops and robbers until the street lights came on,
where chamomile used to grow and we would take it
and rub it in our hands until we started to feel that the smell
has been stamped onto our skin.
I remember you and how you hated the taste, but
once in a while you would entertain the idea of being open-minded
and have a cup with me.
In our last summer together, the one before I left
you walked me home every morning.
It took exactly twenty-three minutes
to get from your place to mine
and each time we passed by the unfinished constructions.
"You know people live at the sight now, right?" you would ask me.
Your hand locked with mine, stiff like a mumbled "goodbye".
I would just squeeze your hand until I heard your knuckles crack.
