Year of writing 139. Where I am.

5/19/12


I swing my feet out from under the covers
the same way I always have. They land on
unfamiliar carpet, but for how long? How
many mornings until my feet hit home?

The doves outside are not my doves, the
crow cawing on the roof belongs to bright
skies and morning sun. My sweat has fallen
into the earth many times already, my blood
has been spilled as well.  Still, this place of
quiet, of wrought iron and orange blossoms,
does not fit right on my body. When it does,
when the sun no longer leaves its mark on
my neck, when the mosquitoes tire of my
taste, then I will alter the pause in my speech
when someone asks where I am from.