Letter to Another Immigrant Daughter

Friday, July 15, 2022

for Sarah Ghazal Ali


Days unclear, filled with sun. The flicker of another
          life coming for me. Rushing

makes an imprint—bruised knees. Time purpling
          the rhododendron. Near summer, 

when childhood’s shadow is near, you say you feel
          God's hand. Where on your back, exactly? 

In my earliest memory, my father is teaching me, 
          on the couch in a small apartment, 

how to make the sign of the cross. Mama
          observes, a birthmark the shape of Polska  

on her forearm. Meant for a better story.
          I wish for kinder eyes, to see less of everything.  

Sometimes I go walking without my glasses.
          Maybe next time I'll spin in the grass, 

arms wide open. I hope I'm laughing when I fall.
          I want to send that laughter to you.


Friday, July 15, 2022