by B.B.P. Hosmillo
you've been here more than ninety times. your mother, after the migration
and after the fire, stopped doing the math.
how many years do we have to rename ourselves after all is infinite.
she cried whenever reminded
your birth was normal yet unnatural. it had no connection
to national womb, a fortune-teller everyone visits for privilege
or the laughing animal to be found in the word local.
she’d fall asleep remembering how not just once
you tried convincing the soil to give birth to you, kissing it, repetitively
since you had to develop intimacy with native culture
no matter how abrasive.
you began the habit of saying my pain is no different.
to a door that shut in your face. to a folksong that hurt its lyrics.
to the real fire that left you unrecognizable. did this qualify as a tragedy
or migrant story?
your mother soon left the house, the city. nobody will see her anywhere.
she had no place to go back to.
as a ghost you may get here again anytime, but don’t.
the country will write a long history, but will never dare to wake ashes.
nobody knows where to put you.