Tropical Rainforest by Raisa Reina
I’m not a desert girl.
My skin cracks. My hair flakes.
My body produces sweat in the strangest places.
Why is the back of my knee wet?
I miss the rain, my home, the yard.
I miss my cashew tree and the thundering clouds.
I felt God in the before, could taste the angels on my tongue.
I want to return, to open the door, to find Heaven between the clouds.
I miss the woman selling palm leaf brooms,
the Snowcone man pedaling around school.
Smelling the air for the time of day, feeling the sun and knowing the tides.
I miss familiar streets, veins in my heart.
The desert doesn’t know me.
I can’t name a flower or taste the fruits.
My tongue cries for mercy. Lip balms can’t solve my pain.
The water here doesn’t cherish my embrace.
Cricket, coconut water and mangos with salt and pepper.
Lizards danced on my windows, cows grazed the neighborhood, I held court on my balcony as the storms raged around me.
Kites trapped in gutters, flaming steel wool, I can still smell the Phagwah powder you left on my face.
Six more years have come and gone.
How many leaves will the rainforest shed before I return?
“I tried to be nostalgic. In touch with the past and nature. I didn’t love this. It felt like pandering to someone else’s view of my own home. It got rejected somewhere less than 24 hours after I submitted. How can you reject what my home looks like? Writing brings joy. I can’t imagine giving it up. I hate this rollercoaster and I want to get off this ride but I know as soon as I do I’ll just end up buying another ticket again.”
Raisa Reina (she/her) is a Guyanese born writer currently editing her first novel. She has a BA, is a self-proclaimed horror critic and can never remember the words to any songs. She can be reached on Twitter at @Thehahafactory2.