BY MIA SARA
DISPATCHES FROM THE CORNER OF HOLLYWOOD AND MOTHERHOOD
Appropriation
Unsure of my body,
or the shape of my culture,
I can attest to the legacy
of the wooden spoon,
and a feeling for salt
as a cure-all
for the high hopes
we all have to swallow.
Good taste is
always the last resort
for a refugee, like me.
My last best hope,
is as much a lie
as the first one.
I choose, therefore I am.
I am, not what I choose.
The possibilities
may not be endless,
but we can try to love
in an endless way.
I’m no hero. This story
is unfinished devotions,
and dinners. Some kids,
they eat the empties
you hide from them, so
your pantry is bare
but full of cans. Feed
your proper ghosts,
feed the always wilderness
of acceptance, again and
again, take up the burden
that belongs to no one.