Eulogy for my brother who made it home

Eulogy for my brother who made it home 

Brother who I will not name 
You made it home today 
I write this as I listen to a voice that speaks, 
in similar tongue to the boys at the park

Today. 

Slithered skin, from the japanese feather blade 
Sand flung around, below well-mown grass 
The cycle’s chain is lying distraught
broken as your mangled self 
the marks on the tarmac scream.

There was hesitation in the last second
The lines straighten up, they disappear 
Quicker than his name will, from local muse

inside bu hussain, porrota is warm
salna and salad will fair just well 

All is merry, they catch you drunk 
This isn’t your home, acha says 
This isn’t your home, they remind us again
This isn’t your home, we rent instead

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, 
or if it’ll make any sense 
“eulogy” isn't a word we say
Amma won’t like this. It’s too bad of an omen 
But she doesn’t see what we’ve been around 

Maybe it isn’t strange  

On 747s, and mixed embalming platters
It was when we landed, they pronounced us dead

Sree is an artist, theater maker, music producer, and photographer who experiments with sound, sight, people, and movement. Through these experiments, he interrogates his identity, culture, taboos, and place in the world. A final year theater and music student in NYU Abu Dhabi, he works with research and ethnographic study that culminates in immersive performances/installations. His training in artistic research inherits from the theatrical process developed by the Theater Mitu company based in NYC. His current introspection surrounds material cultures and positionalities of the places he calls home, and through art, he questions the representations/appropriations of the same.

Social: 
@callmeswee // @sree.pink 

In conversation with:
Mona Kareem Eulogies for futures to come
S.Chandramohan Killing the shambuka

Image courtesy of author