The Return

Who am I when things change?

Where once there was a rushing river,
Now runs a creek in the desert,
Soaking up all its water into the thirstiest earth.

When he came home, what did Odysseus find?
Was his home what he remembered? Was
It everything he longed for?

Now, I’ve run, run, run all around this world
And have found myself unable to stop.
After seeing disasters, sorrow and great wonder
I sit at home, walk my own gardens and wonder
How could I ever be the same?

Nostalgia, a fickle spectre conjures false memories
Of times tinted in golden light.

Tell me, Penelope,
What did he look like when he returned?
Was he the handsome hero who’d haunted your desire?
Or had your rage consumed you,
Marking the years on his face, his body
Turning him into a man you could no longer see.

Because to me, nothing ever looked the same twice.

Sacrament

I am my own mass,













A sacrifice only counts freely given.

to listen, openly
to kneel
to rise

to share peace and wish it onto you
to chant,
to confess
to take your offering


Or to refuse all of it and turn away
from your performance

(in my hands, on my tongue)

by Estefania Palacio