i keep close the intonation of my name
spoken in my mother’s voice. there was a time
i let people mispronounce it. i don’t
remember the sound of my grandfather’s voice. i’ve lost
the word for the flower i could be, impatient
blossom, used to never wear lipstick, now i smear
shades of azalea on my lips, i kiss everything, i leave
a mark. invocation. as in: a prayer i want
to repeat. the physicality of it: prayer, kissing, echoes
of a younger me. trying to be approved of.
i’m not saying i am better now. i look up how to say
anchor in my first language. once i didn’t need
to search. kotwica. my mama gave birth to me
a month after my parents arrived in the states.
nie mówiła wtedy po angielsku. it was
her first time on a plane. i know nothing
of ground, of letting the ship sleep.
i fly for hours to visit. if i could
bind myself to a place, put cut flowers in a vase,
i would thank my mother that way. instead
i pour the petals out.
*This poem won Third Place in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.