by Jnana Hodson

As I said at the time …

Of migrants and migration (a writer’s piece I’m recalling): in exile, the expectation you come home to bury your mother’s bones, to be the first, as the eldest son, to place dirt on her coffin. Or you yourself, to be a restless soul if buried in a foreign place, rather than your homeland. Your identity, first and foremost, with the tribe.

Just look at history for the underlying ancient politics, repeating. Or the Huguenots and Irish, generations later, in the American South.

The challenge comes in trying to heal them and move on.


in sunlight
under the rock summit
a beetle crossed my path

years later
we met again

how can anyone say otherwise?

Dude, Hippie Chick,
Civil Rights Activist, and Freak
and assorted other souls all offering flowers and incense

in the streaming air

poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson