The smallest diaspora
begins creeping
in the souls of those weakened
in the hearts of those suffering
in the mourning and the grieving.
This one
whose hands are aching
and
whose hold is slipping
onto anything
anyone
will never
return to
the homeland.

The brother will not notice.
The neighbor will not see
The kindred do not comprehend
the vanishing.
This is the smallest diaspora.
The one that is lost here.
The other that is missing there.
That hands are aching
and hold is slipping
onto anything
anyone
even
time itself.

-- kg