This winter, I will light a candle, place it in a window
to guide the night birds to me so I can sleep.
I’ve saved the important things in a drawer in my mind.
I retell my story, as if looking over the shoulder
of someone who is also looking over a shoulder,
detached like a monk from all the worldly stuff I’ve lost.
I’m homesick as an immigrant and homeless as a refugee.
No one speaks my language, this food is unfamiliar gruel.
I know why not every death is mourned.
In an earlier period, nostalgia was treated as if it could be fatal.
Little wonder we are so harsh in our criticism of it now,
so terrified of falling into it’s clutch.