homeland
 
tell me this land
of sun & sweatshops & no good dialect
is mine tell
me this land of buildings with all the windows
colored red & a thousand
slowly blinking children & no arms
on the clocks is mine tell me
how to be heartless how to be both survivor
& burning bridge tell me all the ways
the sky sprouts shrapnel
& silver screens & gorges itself
on our apologies all
our silence
tell me what I am running
from
or towards
tell me where my language
is hiding & why it still follows
my almond-eyed shadow tell me
about the raw bloom
of our bodies & this land that only carries
so much paper
tell me about the lukewarm
& bone cut
& bird-boned
& skin deep
tell me about glasses that will never stay
on our noses & browned apples
dropping from trees
tell me about sidewalk cracks
& loose change
& how nothing fits
or maybe was never meant
to belong
tell me I can swallow
all that the land whispers—
 
it pretends it has never
loved me
it cannot even remember
my name
but still I can taste
the soft light that touches
mother’s skin
I can still taste
the morning, everything
I left behind—