Vagabond,
humming- bird hearted
fluttering
to and fro
sipping the sweetness
( often the bitterness)
of this thing called
life.
Migratory
Migrant
like a Monarch
wafting with
tiger- striped wings
on beguiling
winds.
Wanderer.
Rambler.
( though no rose)
meandering
like ancient rivers
( Langston's and others)
Drifter.
Gypsy waif.
Daughter of diasporas.
Eternal exile.
Expatriate.
Unrooted yet,
with roots sown about.
Fronteirs
crossings
and constant resettlings
these, my only birthright.
And now I think
of my father's flight
into Austria
revolutionary refugee
walking westward
past barbed wire
guard towers
mines
carrying mere memories
of-
Molotov cocktails
Soviet tanks
and Budapest
burning.
But father,
at least you lived
to see
your hated
Iron Curtain
finally
ripped down...
While here,
I straddle
another border
it divides South from North
not East from West.
Now, I cross
other bridges
not the one at Andau,
( Michener's book)
where you stood.
And I know
that I,
pale, auburn- tressed
stand out from
these caramel-colored
obsidian- haired
hordes
scuttling
back and forth
on the El Paso del Norte
Lerdo
Zaragoza
for father like you,
I've landed
on foreign soil.
Here, in Juarez
there aren't any
mines
or
tanks
( not yet)
still, barbed wire
seperated sides
keeping
peace and justice
as sought-after
abstractions.
Though father, like you
I too, dream
though I've turned pacifist
with age
and so, hold not even
a rusty rifle
in these poet's hands.
No,
I am armed
with mere words
still,
let them
alight
and burst into flame
flaming
not in destruction,
but with warmth and light.
Glowing
words
poetry- burning bright.