Heartbroken Satellite

I restore my childhood
leveling a book on her head
while holding her mother’s hand.
To be a daughter again.
Mexico anchored to my feet,
I imagine my faith
has a strong connection
to my motherland.
I climb to the roots of her hair
to tell her secrets
when she’s sound asleep.
Mother, I refuse to believe
we’re oak burning our soil.
The heartbroken satellite recovers
girls with flesh cheekbones.
We lose signal to the village
gave birth to our traditions.
Who are we to knock on homes
no longer breathing when we echo
second generation orphans,
or so we’re told.
We hop on freight trains
to an abandoned garden
where we’re not able
to describe ourselves.
I say, our identity is not
the texture of our hair,
the direction of our bloodstream
or the ink of our eyes –
it’s how we see ourselves;
our actions mirrors the sky.
We’re mixed in continents.
We don’t all come from one root.
I refuse to believe
we’re just molecules
turning our accents to dust.
America tugging at my heart,
I climb up the stairs
of her spine
in time for the sun
to break free
from the night’s sky
holding her hostage
to shout, “Hallelujah!”

Hallelujah.
I live culture shock
in another family’s name.
We’re strangers on strange land
or perhaps we’re strange
on stranger’s land.

Scherezade’s Note : An immigrant’s psalm. The pang of a lost land is rife in this poem’s molten grace. The opening lines are testament to the poet’s unmistakable prowess.

I’m speechless. She’s one of my favourite writers so it means the world when she gives me a nod with a poem that took me so long to write.

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