Immigrant
My village had no electricity and one pig.
This is the story my father tells when he thinks
I am finally old enough to listen.
It is too recent for
once upon a time, too private for
third person, too self-conscious for
introduction, not ready for an ending.
Maybe I would understand this history of pride
if we had a common alphabet. Instead, I test his accent against
mine: shifting verb tenses and misplaced emphasis
and consonants that sound like vowels that sound
uncomfortable.
Pathetic.
Do you know? How lucky you are.