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
