Written by Austin Lui Mello
History is deep and
outside my reach; but
wet echoes
lap sand,
leaving traces
and topographies.
In the trench,
hungry fossils connive
in absolute obscurity,
trailing silken notions
from vane or spine,
carrion falling, freezing,
stirs abyssal appetites,
a toothy shifting in the murk;
not far from where i flew
home from the hospital to
learn to bob and toddle on teak;
not far from the territory where
my great grandma was
swept up by an airman;
not far from the woody
studio where my ex-pat dad
broke glass, learned to speak;
not far from the corrugated
quonset avalon where my
grandpa dick kept watch
over shorelines,
bated breath,
windows adorned in
mourning curtains.
Now, little more than
waves rumbling
below the threshold;
felt, but not heard.
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