in my kitchen
heating up yesterday’s cold coffee in
the new white microwave.
A white bedroom that doesn’t feel like mine yet.
A white line down the court,
down the carpet,
down bathroom countertops,
and this stove isn’t hot yet
and my fingers are cold.
Some day I’ll be older,
but it will always feel the same:
a long list of names
I’ve been meaning to call back.
A heart attack. And I still need to shower,
need to feel needed,
need money to turn on the heater.
My mother sends me checks and tells me to check in
whenever I can. I scrub breakfast off the baking pan
and water the plants.
In the morning,
I eat a glowing half of an orange
and wish I was thinner. Chocolate for dinner,
and folding up clothes.
and swallowing yesterdays.
It will always feel this way.
When your classmates wrinkled their noses at the scent of your lunch still lingering on your clothes,
Even though their ancestors had conquered half the world in search of the spices you ate.
How they jeered at your mother’s bindi, making crude jokes about how ridiculous it looked on her,
And after ten years, how they all wore the exact same ornament on their own foreheads to keep up with the current trends.
When they repeatedly stumbled over the sharp letters which formed your name, forcing you to repeat yourself several times before giving up;
Only to have those very letters tattooed on their own flesh, in a language they do not comprehend.
Your culture belongs to you,
Not to them.
Text hung with thread in a local park on the weekend.