Echoes beneath our feet

In this village of poverty,

the person who you used to be

is etched into the very soil

of the muddied pathways,

name carved into the trees

that have grown alongside you—

so deep that the leaves

find solitude in you

whenever your parents echo your name.

The river still remembers

the weight of your body—

cradling you with your mother’s prayers

for her baby to stay safe—

they are the evidence

of the love you lived in.

The rustling leaves

that could trick you into thinking of rain—

did you fall for it like how I did, Mother?

Did you run to warn the others,

just to catch your own palm

dragging down your face, Mother?

Did you sigh out your disappointment,

hoping the day would be a little cold, Mother?

I would unearth you,

whether six feet down—

just one last time

to ask you who you were.

When every acre of this land

resembles you—

could you blame grief

for killing me?

You are a constant presence,

a ghost—

lingering.
And with every fallen leaf,

a question sits heavily on my tongue.

I yearn to know who you are.

They sit beside the unspoken apologies

and the domestic rage

still trapped at the roof of my mouth.

Every knowledge is grief—

but a solitude

that splits me

into a dilemma.