Jul/Aug 2010 Poetry |
Strange Land
Wind brings
the American desert
to our front doorinside the house
it's the old countryAmerica takes practice
mother prepares
our daily lessonseach morning we emigrate
our fermenting lunchboxes
ripe with foreign stinkthe war of two languages
leaves us mute in school
speak up, the teacher saysred ants pierce the heart
of our flimsy suburb
slip into bags of sugarpaper wasps ping the house
build nests from wood
and their own fierce salivathe insatiable wind
presses against the walls
America drifts under the doorsillmother scrubs the hot windows
scans the hazy air
always look up, she sayshow did she outlast her childhood
in a black cellar
while bombers inked the sky?our questions pain her
it's enough to survive
don't ask me for more