Always the odd one

I inhabit
a liminoid space-
of borders as birthright
and I span,
sometimes straddle
three cultures.
- it is a delicate
balance
a tightrope
walk
though mostly a
fusion
- a warm embrace.
Little girl,
kislany,
Magyar- child
I've forever carried
my parents'
'56...
Grown to womanhood
I've navigated Calo and Spanglish,
I became
fronteriza
learned to love
chiles and camaronnes,
these silent
sierras...
my life,
a crazy
corrido...
Now, older
I think of you,
Mother-
my last link
to something
primal,
my identity-
1st language...
And no, I haven't
forgotten-
( not entirely)
I practice
with near- strangers
- Facebook friends
and they endure my
botched
spellings,
the misplaced accent
marks...
as we send " likes"
to one another
and remark,
" nagyon szep"
" very nice..."
It has come to this
now,
with my refugee
family-
the old ones
dead
and thus, it's just
me,
arva
huérfana
orphan-
always furcsa-
curiosita
always- the odd one.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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