returning home

Tazi Rodrigues returning home

returning after the first time i move away. dry air settles, draws water from my skin. in the airport parking lot our father tells me about the neighbourhood’s stray cats and accordion players. he says you are sleeping. i say good night, gently, through your closed door. in the morning, we drink tea on the porch. your limbs have been rearranged, metatarsals dripping from your tongue, painted toenails where once there were teeth but you sip your tea with the same eloquence as before. you ask about the weather in montreal.