From above, stolen
land here is brown, green, mauve:
as if a child’s hand drew a frog’s palm,
colored it so. Slender fingers, meaty
ends—
here again buildings bend but do not fall, bear
shadows almost black, interrupted by a splinter
of silver country road here or there.
When my elders passed I lost
more than their poise or laughter or mischief
or their small cruelties or care—long muscle
of history, sliver of my very first breath.
To leave, to arrive—
to catch a self at home.
Copyright © 2026 by Siwar Masannat. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 20, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
