I wouldn’t want to be the kind
where rich people go on holiday
to eat sustainably-raised local produce and call themselves eco-tourists.
Not the kind of hotel whose duty-free gift shop
announces indigenous-artisanal souvenirs.
And definitely not the resort that offers wedding packages including
a traditional ceremony officiated from a nearby temple.
I’d rather be the place where locals stay
when they have to go to the capitol on business;
on a narrow street with no sign in English.
Inside, no AC, no elevators, bathrooms at the end of every hall.
Where the staff all know you by name, ask after your father, mutual friends,
wrap you in the gossip of every small town in the country.
I’d like to be the place you feel at home when you’re not home.
Where the food’s not haute but it’s hot, napkins are worn but clean,
the dining room echoes with family chatter from the kitchen
and where the ceiling fans whisper slow reassurance
in your native tongue.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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