For the Roots issue of Collide we asked APU students to submit poetry responding to the theme, here are the submissions.
Ellen Beard
Homeless Until (найду родину в Тебе)*
I say that home is where my house is
Afar, deceased, in suitcases confined
I slowly unpack, but leave my heart back
In cozy clinging cobwebs of dear grief
The pressure of unspoken words builds up
And bulges bloat behind that dam luggage.
Oh where on earth can my heart be?
Thus shattered, scattered out across the seas
Shaved pieces, keepsakes for my sojourners
Ripped root tips left abandoned far behind
In garden soils of мои родины**
Forever nagging grief, my sole vestige.
Oh where on earth can my heart be?
Bits wander with a thousand treasured loves.
Is there a morsel of it more to give?
Thus empty handed am I doomed to have
My only home, collected memories
I carry in the shell upon my back?
But life’s and beauty’s Holy Author,
Your infinite love formed my frail heart
Though I’ve indeed lost many houses
I’ve found exactly where my house is:
Where I dwell in Your presence now complete
With hope to settle permanently there.
** moyi rodiniy – my birth places; my homelands; my homes
Ray Evangelista
In bocca al lupo
“Now I know why tigers eat their young.”
—Al “Scarface” Capone
A glass of wine, red like the blood
That sluggishly bathes this saint.
God rest his soul, but let his ringer burn
Like my sinner’s soul, ‘cause when I die,
Tell my folks I ain’t comin’ home.
Heaven ain’t no place for angels with dirty faces.
I almost forgot my mother’s face.
She and I once shared the same blood
Wasting away together in the same home,
But God bless her, she was a saint.
I hope I ain’t there to watch her die,
But sure as Hell, she ain’t goin’ there to burn.
If she could see Saint Valentine burn,
With our blood on his melting cardboard face,
She’d wonder why he deserved to die,
Face reflected in a pool of his own blood,
For the “monstrous crime” of bein’ a saint.
At least when he died, he knew he was comin’ home.
The needle staked in my finger reminds me of home:
Ma sewing jeans and letting the chicken burn,
Praying for favors from a dead, silent saint,
The right hook to that pompous broad’s face
That got me expelled. It’s all in my blood,
Like this steel thorn: part of me, until I die.
But from this cursed day on, I live and die
By the gun and knife. My new home
Is in these cragged faces and the bonds of blood
Mixed on the surface of the card that burns
Slowly until the flame devours the face
Of the helpless, stagnant, fish-eyed saint.
Now, believe me, I ain’t no saint,
But if God told me I was gonna die
Today, I’d wanna feel the warmth of home
In the morning breeze upon my face
Before it’s finally my turn to burn,
Away from the kin that lent me their blood.
As the saint lies, smeared with blood,
I see my budding face in the bridges I burn.
Some people die before they can go home.
From Anonymous