How to Sky-Bury Your Father Tongue | The Iowa Review
One of the rooms is haunted the Resident Poet tells me, handing the key. From my studio, the Gihon is green and barely a creek. Yet this town with one bar and no coffee shop summons up my birth village: the two-storied stone house, the water mill, the suspension bridge, the Mikli-Phoom that spat out Jyojyo still breathing … (I never went back after we moved to Kathmandu: what was I so afraid of finding, of not finding?) And why am I, who have always been afraid of the dark, disappointed
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