Not a Plane but a Disease

A child of immigrants, I am always asking to go home. Home asks me back
Got this tropical heart
Y Yo destruyo la industria que has creado en el nombre de los padres, las palmas
For you I’d be split open if I didn’t have pores like pursed lips. I would kiss you
In my bed where I held hands in my skin like scars
fingertips on my lips with no weight.
Summer was always a school session, when I spent weekends
pouring over and memorizing
your body a textbook. It read: Podría ser to país . I could be your country.
Pulse like an anvil
I told you that a
heart has no mother.
La maldita cosa, she’s a spoiled thing – the heart
wonder how quick I’m turning your
air gray but so long as none of
this C. O. 2. is re-inhaled
I might stand a chance to heal.
Your world is made gentle by gentle hands
Broken hearts and hands kept me soft, too,
like clay
easily manipulated
My world is made escapable by small boats and planes, green trees and grass
So now I am smile-less train rides alone,
A great companion to myself.
Necessary implosion but not yet collapse.
Unlike your legible skin
My body is guitar strings, electric ones. Permanently. TWANGED. They sing, Era tu país. I was your country.
I’d live to study you again
And breath back at callused hands
If I were blessed with breath
Heartache and solitude become the sensation-free alone.
That I’ve searched for since they paid special
attention to a young body.
My parents had their homes burglarized, their land sold
And when my body was my home, so did I. I am an immigrant to my senses, and I am asking to go home.


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