Small Places Wild Hearts

By Prosari Chanda

Hands that remember every crossing,

every tide that rose to kiss the shore.

Clouds gather, waters swell,

yet the shore stands still,

holding its quiet rebellion.

What is it to be a piece of the whole? 

Who decides what makes a whole?

Someday, I know I am one of them

blood, criticism, hate, marrow, praise, money, blood

I’m one of them.

So I go to small places,

where happiness asks for no reason.

Where nothing needs sorting out,

where belonging is just breathing.

Here, I take a piece at a time,

wave the wild tail, 

and walk into the wild lone—

not apart, but enough, not lost, but becoming.

By Prosari Chanda