by A. Shaikh

I imagine the Gulmohar tree
               is a golden bird when it falls

               it falls and I dream the sound of
its crimson death an ocean away

an ocean away, Texas is known for its heat
               and long summers with no rain

               with no rain it is easy to forget monsoons
and freedom and even my grandmother

even my grandmother loses her voice to dust
               visiting the States for the first time

               for the first time since Trump is elected
I call myself immigrant,

immigrant, which is to say the miracle of an uprooted tree
               still growing inside this country

               inside this country, eleven years later
I am still not a citizen,

I am still learning how to spoon the water
               back into my mouth.

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