Springvale

 

My mother broke her back

trying to do the impossible:

 

grow us new tongues

crack into new bones.

In Springvale I foraged the streets

for low hanging fruits. Floating

 

back and forth. See Iraq with black

and white vision. There are no new

 

images. Peer through the window

at abundance, a far away place.

 

I dragged books across the ground,

danced with unfamiliar sounds.

 

The house here is shrinking.
It was so large

 

when we arrived. Or maybe we were

small. I see shop signs that speak

 

to me, only me. There is a gap

between my teeth wide enough

 

for two countries. I push

my tongue into it.