Monday, April 12, 2021

Inheritance

My body held stories before I could hold a pen to shape letters 

My stomach is full of recipes salted by generations and seasoned with time 

My ears ring with whispers of songs hummed by mothers, aunts, grandparents 

I spoke the tongue of motherland memories half forgotten 

My dreams are those of revolutionaries fighting wars I do not know 

My skin and hair and eyes, the color of all that dust collected 

And in my blood and bones a multitude of strength, tempered, misremembered over time

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