hinarising

I’ve been digging for a while

A stubborn weed that won’t let go

fingers prying stones

nails packed with soil

subcutaneous levels of time

digging deep

tiny tendrils seeking dark

Purple, gold, red, black

And the transparency of white

Not knowing the strength of grief

Or the nakedness of light.

Have we grown strong, then?

Barefoot children,

Pressed clothes and slicked back hair,

“Just because we’re poor,

doesn’t mean we have to be dirty”

Cereal boxes and fish hooks,

rail road tracks, and chandelier gems

from a plastic factory across the tracks,

Pacific Islanders in a Mexican barrio

in a foreign land without “birthsands”.

Oh those young roots holding strong in desperation

A generation of mixed breeds pulled apart,

Separated, dispossessed from birthlands

What was there to hold onto then, But each other?

I cried in the dark, afraid,

Of being alone

Of being born

And dying

A bastard

Without a name

To my skin

But you were there. Then.

Clinging rootlets without soil.

Never letting go.

Are we not now resilient weeds digging deep

Ferns turning stones in an Ahu of our own creation

Distant lives in our own image, still holding on.