After Marci Calabretta
For my mother, who came here as a teenager,
working twelve-hour days, not because we were needing,
but because it was all she ever knew. Not knowing love
would betray her.
For my father, who learned
English from watching New York Jets football
and listening to rap on the car radio. Knowing
his mother was on her deathbed thousands of miles away,
his father’s grave in a lot which he will not be buried in.
For my grandfather, who would tell my mother
to get whatever my palms landed on. That he did not
hop country after country only for her
to not be giving.
For my sister, ravaged to her cement foundation,
who still has a will to stand.
For my sister, the first women I loved deeply.
For my sister, who hangs missing posters of herself on
utility poles.
I am a barren land:
plant what you will.
Painting Courtesy of Our Featured Artist Fahed Mohammed Shehab
