the ceiling of the
chapel where we
did yoga tonight
reminds me of
my grandmother’s house
the living room where
i spent so much
of my childhood
had the same high ceilings
with thick wooden beams
and the iron chandelier
against the south wall was
the bed where my great uncle slept
a cast iron fireplace sat to the east
my little desk tucked
in the corner between them
where my child self
sat late into the night
straining my eyes
scrawling across pages
stories that i hardly
remember now
but i’m sure
their subject matter
was about the same:
love, adventure,
nomad dreams
twenty years later
three hundred fifty miles away
laying under a ceiling
that reminds me of that place
and how natural it is
for me to need
to sit in a dark room
late into the night
writing stories
narinda heng 