109 by Anisa Maya Dhanji

Photo of Anisa’s old family apartment

109

i remember how much the magnolia

tree bloomed in spring 

at the end of our backyard

learning how to climb her

springing over the fence

slamming my palms on the brick pavement

and racing down the hot alley.

the seasons have lost me.

soon i slip into a cold memory

an early morning

here, i think is

where i hold myself at the end of my

bed as he sets ma’s clothes on fire

it was here, i left the muslim in

my name at the table when 

i was 5 years old

watching the towers fall on 

the kitchen television.

forgive me for 

leaving her there all those years.

i can move more gently

even in the hard places

even in the old places.

i am telling you where i come from and

i am telling you where i am going

with this grief

a tree, with new leaves unfolding.

i think i am homesick

for her, grieving as

my fingers trace the burned carpet

before i leave.

this is the skin that houses these ghosts,

it is the only thing i have left

it makes a home in me

i give it room to grow, just enough

to lull a gentle mess

in spring.

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Anisa (she/they) is a racially-mixed and neurodivergent settler Canadian residing on stolen Qayqayt lands. She uses diverse mediums to create art about the landscapes of identity and memory, and the heartwork of love and relationships. You can find Anisa drifting in and out of the present tense, but when she isn’t teaching, floristing or daydreaming, she enjoys the company of these coasts’s airs, trees and waters that rightfully belong to, and are cared for by the Coast Salish Peoples.