for a language i choose my grandmother’s
laugh always arriving a beat too late
a line stretched thin across the ocean & for
traditions i borrow a custom from budrus
of naming olive trees after mothers &
for countrymen i take the unclaimed contents
of my own body crooked heart their ruler
hair the plumes of smoke clinging to a
recent ruin & in the anthem all the children
born far away turn homeward & chant it’s me it’s me i’m yours
