A Million Little Dyings

Photo by Thijs Degenkamp on Unsplash

Every night a life comes to me in a different shape, a different
smell, a different dream. There is no logic in this insomnia,

in the taste of brine under my tongue, in leaking boats, in
fishermen sweat, this drop of old blood on the inside of

my left cheek. A home I have left is also a home refusing
to leave me. Swimming, paddling, drowning…