by Adelina Rose Gowans
still, my voice keeps catching on the past
tenses of spanish verbs. like my ancestors
are playing dudo in my amygdala. like my
heritage is a stack of torn up party napkins.
only yesterday, i learned how to speak—
scraped my mouth full of peppery papaya
seeds, chewed, swallowed, retched up
full sentences of poetry and black
saliva. today, i ask my mother if i will
ever see honduras; she pulls US travel
advisories out of the long basketball
scar across her knee—the advisories turn
into birds cawing outside my windowsill
at midnight. i ask my mother if i will
ever see costa rica; she severs her own
deltoid and pulls from it grandmother’s
jaundiced right eye, says she fears death
will soon be our history’s home. america
has mistaken itself for a benzodiazepine,
turns me sleepy when i mention diaspora,
runs the richter scale over my unsacred
body—uncovers moments where my
disintegration become synonymous with
comfort, with my inevitable lightness.
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