foreign

by

When I meet you in the middle of a snow-lined pavement my skin
will still be as brown as fertile soil. I will know the names the sun
has christened all its rice field sons and mango tree daughters,
and yet I will struggle with mine, try to find the easiest way for you
to remember it when you can’t even say it right. My name will feel
strange on your tongue, like a fleece coat draped over your arms
in July, or that buzzing at the back of your head when you step out
of a plane after a 16-hour flight. You will ask me to write it down.

When I meet you in the middle of a snow-lined pavement my skin
will still smell like garlic, vinegar, whole black pepper—all the things
I used to hand my lola as she stood in an open stone kitchen cooking
adobo for supper, her long hair in a bun, a swirl of black and gray.
When I meet you in the middle of a snow-lined pavement my skin
will long for sweat dripping down the small of my back or collecting
on the bridge of my nose, as I help my mother sweep and scrub from
top to bottom a house that we would soon leave behind. I will fold
my arms across my chest, protect my fluttering heart from frostbite.

When I meet you in the middle of a snow-lined pavement my skin
will still buzz with a tropical warmth and you will not recognize this
sound, mistake my loneliness for anger or resentment or perhaps
something else that cuts, bleeds, hurts. But my loneliness has no
sharp edges, no jagged rims; it is not a weapon against the cold, hard
streets and the dark, dark nights and the towering silver walls and the
shrill scraping of ambition and the dreams I will chase until I die.

When I meet you in the middle of a snow-lined pavement my skin
will still be as brown as fertile soil. Sometimes when the stars are not
harsh and the days are gentle, I can imagine my body stark against
seas of concrete and sheets of white, and I swear I almost shine.