i wrote a poem on homesickness

So, I am back to the source,

with the mother who raised me,

amidst fields of maize.

I find pieces of me scattered

on the byline,

beside the cot where she gently

lulled me to sleep,

and by the fire where we read

the books out loud.

I'll be safe here,

safe in the motherland,

where I don't have to be brave

or young or old or glittery.

I'd have to let myself flow

like the river which flows

across my motherland.

I'll sit and turn to stone

if I lived here forever

and I won't ever catch on fire

or turn blush-red like blood.

So, I cut out thin strips of myself,

make paper ringlets out of my soul.

I string myself across borders,

and touch all corners of the earth,

until my dear soul snaps in half

and I become homeless after all.

I am back in LA,

but it's exhausting to unravel.

So, I sit on the dance floor,

illuminated by the mirrorball,

surrounded by wolves,

and curl my body like an infant,

until I can grow a maize field

right here, in my bones.

- Ringlets, by Dikshya.