Status Updates From Omeros

my god.

But if it could read between the lines of her floor like a white-hot deck uncaulked by Antillean heat, to the shadows in its hold, the coffled feet scraping like leaves, and perhaps the inculpable marble would have turned its white seeds away, to widen
the bow of its mouth at the horror under her table, from the lyre of her armchair draped with its white chiton, to do what the past always does: suffer, and stare.

i’m taking my sweet time with this, trying to read it only in the morning or when i’m at work and want to look cool. its made me homesick in ways i can’t really describe

i actually am not allowed to refer to myself as caribbean until i finish this