My Culture
My culture has at last bled out
into the river down the street.
No longer must I traverse
oceans and foreign lands
when I speak of my parent home.
My mother’s veins no longer
map the surface beneath
my skin. And Grandfather’s anger
is now simply my own.
My tongue does not twist and turn.
I need not grab it from others
and pull when they say my name.
It moves up once and once down
in every mouth.
There is no use for vivid colour
when I paint my backdrop.
Forget morning-long bread lines
and skin-itching fur coats.
My children will dream
around the block. I will shield them
from the airplanes in my family’s eyes,
wrinkled in the corners from
the weight of their baggage.
My culture is at last buried
beneath the backyard bushes.
No longer can I remember
how it felt to see it
blooming in my front lawn.