My skin speaks and it has stitches

 

wounds through which many memories have escaped.

 

             My skin speaks with a darkness that

 

imposes distance.

 

Because I’m different 

 

I’m strange

 

I’m indigenous.

 

 

I speak my mother's tongue 

 

I use an alphabet which holds no memory for me; but my mother's memory lives in this language.

 

I try to be part of it.

 

Everything takes shape 

 

                                       by recognizing 

 

the memory arrives 

 

             forgotten 

 

                          abandoned.

 

I construct these lines 

 

I essay 

 

             reconstructing myself

 

             reconstructing myself within my history.

 

Once reconstructed, perhaps I will no longer imagine dancing.

 

 

Perhaps I will only fly along with words; I will feel at home articulating, spelling, pronouncing my innermost feelings. 

 

What you hear has yet to take root in me.

 

Each word has yet to  

 

                                   babble

 

                                   remember

 

                                   discover 

 

its place

 

 its emotion 

 

  its memory

 

My skin is polished and sometimes shines; but it calls for darkness and collapse.

 

I am my mother's color

 

though I have never wondered if her skin glows.