How to Sky-Bury Your Father Tongue

One of the rooms is haunted the Resident Poet tells me, handing

the key. From my studio, the Gihon is green and barely a creek. Yet

this town with one bar and no coffee shop summons up

my birth village: the two-storied stone house, the water mill,

the suspension bridge, the Mikli-Phoom that spat out Jyojyo

still breathing … (I never went back after we moved to Kathmandu:

what was I so afraid of finding, of not finding?) And why am I,

who have always been afraid of the dark, disappointed


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