Translation:

My father’s thoughts // encrypted,

buried by the monolithic lisp of newcomer // visible other // and

my own lack of self-discipline.

They say to heal // you have to

talk // but how do you speak when

you are // being gagged by your

own mother tongue? // Every

arching tone and lisp // given in

my blood // scraping off and

crusting into dust. Characters and

intonations // lost // between my

father’s hand // and my mother’s

grief. Do you go to church,

Vanessa? // Do you know Jesus?

he pleads. // Maybe God could tell

you // what my blood failed to

teach.         

 

---

 

Gratitude:

and anyway, the sun

still rises

to kiss the tops of our heads

whether we are good,

or bad, or deserving

 

and the world persists

relentlessly, undue

to the cycle of things

 

while the earth beckons

unashamed of providence

unrestrained of abnegation

 

beckons us to infancy

when the tall grass

and the trees

taught us how to grow

to stand on our own

among our own

 

when our lungs inhaled

in tandem

the sincerity of change

and the consolation

of control

 

our hearts lodged

in gardens erected

halfway between being

and becoming

 

asks of us nothing

there is no redemption arc

nothing to repent

because the sun rises anyway

to kiss the tops of our heads