-like tea leaves, our skin knowssurvivability, knows its goodnessand resource. a scab, a scrape,any big gash- our skin knows torebound, knows any good medicinecould carry it to its new home.and the tea, it travels in my grandfather’s bag, across sky,across tile, across all the big water.at the airport, he lands and stretcheshis knees loose of clots and rattling,exits the plane in a long shirt-kameez on my family’s tongue, kurtadown the road in the same country.all the language snatched and deliveredby the wind to different cornersbehind an old door- partition of a nation, migration of oceaned blood. then labelled savage, labelledpoor disease. history, too, like leaf and skin, working to heal, but stifled by a heavy fist’s picking.back in the terminals, steel polishedand crisp leather seats. his old bonesand broken english scraped out ofhis best mouth, clicking for his childrenall stuck in pristine doorways, waitingfor their oldest god. he calls, he cries,he asks why they hold him in his tiredclothes, their heavy hands running through his bags, turning and shakingloose the tea. he knows good water, good blood, knows the songs taughtby his thief father, his survivability. -a father is a thief when there Is no food for free, no water withoutblood filtered. all these children of the dirt, finding the right notes with the wrong yell. what to do with land combed through? what to do in a new era’s purge? we negotiate away our own skin, call for release and a warm meal.we know this history, steal fromthe living and surveil their blood-paint their poverty a symptomof their own killing, let the rainingof the blood make its own ocean,drown the people, ask them why they can’t swim. -their own leave bodies littered through streets, schools, even festivals robust with happyblood meant for living skin.still, our skin a weapon,our leaves a spell. -i mean a few things by this, but nobody listens for the screamsof the untamed, so i sit behind the doorwith my grandfather crying. we run through all the papers anchoring himto his own depleted resource, own rummaged land. tea leaves cycleand every single batch dries with our skin. on the other side, a man with an iron boot, ore on the toe pressed clean against wood. all his focus sits in his violent foot and behind him, his brother creeps loud and unbothered, with an axe, a gun, maybe even a bomb.