Explaining My Introversion to a Genocidist Sympathizer


My mother spoons strangers into the living room / like heaping mashed potatoes / She has been fasting all year / and her jaw is unsnapped / ready for gravy boats of colonizers / She places strange hands on the bird / says they’ve earned carving rights / just for invading our small country

My mother minces the cloves of her ears / stashes them in the breadcrumbs / with a dash of salt and pepper and blind eye / She will never understand / amid all this feast in my belly / I am starving

My mother awaits the fleet with armfuls of corn / golden and without nutrients / like currency / Every year she offers more / of herself / and they stalk our home / with bayonet eyes / and musket hands / Ever present / they grow in the fields now / god-like and vine-like / crawling all over my body / convinced they can convert our heathenry to a new world / in which we’re swallowed

My mother does not sow grains of solitude / so her artful fingers cannot taste / the poison in the soil



You can also read this poem here