America is not a place you would call
a homeland.
You cannot squeeze good folktales
out of three hundred
years and apple pie
topped with cheese
or grow a proper fruit tree
from cement.
The streets of New York do not smell
like the folds in your mother’s skirt
or the stray tobacco leaves in your
grandfather’s shirt pocket.
And, if these streets do sound
like a kitchen;
bursting with aunties wielding
wooden spoons, mother dressed
in the apron with frayed
strings
and a patch beneath the pocket,
you cannot understand what they are saying.
America is the place
you go to dream
about the old country, to remember
the homeland, and a place
to continue wishing.
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2 comments:
Excellent use of imagery. I like how we think all of America is NYC...
Joanna,
I think I can see the influence of all of the Naomi Shihab Nye poetry you have been reading...
I love the way that you, and at such a young age, can use poetry as a tool to think outside of yourself. So often there is a tendency to use it for self exploration, self expression.
This feels way more sophisticated. Like someday we could hear you reading a poem at a Clinton inaugaration...
LM
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