This is not how it begins
but how you understand it.
I walk many kilometers and
find myself to be the same—
the same moon hovering over
the same, bleached sky,
and when the officer calls me
it is a name I do not recognize,
a self I do not recognize.
We are asked to kneel, or
stand still, depending on which land
we embroider our feet with—
this one is copious with black blood
or so I am told.
Someone calls me by the skin
I did not know I had
and to this I think—language,
there must be a language
that contains us all
that contains all of this.
How to disassemble
the sorrow of beginnings,
how to let go, and not,
how to crouch beneath other bodies
how to stop breathing, how not to.
Our fathers are not elders here;
they are long-bearded men
shoving taxi cabs and sprawled
in small valet parking lots—
at their sight, my body dims its light
(a desiccated grape)
and murmur, Igziabher Yistilign—
our pride, raw-purple again.
We begin like this: all of us
walking in solitude
walking a desert earth and
unforgiving bodies. We cross lines
we dare not speak of; we learn and
unlearn things quickly, or intentionally slow
(because, that, we can control)
and give ourselves new names
because these selves must be new
to forget the old blue.
But, sometimes, we also begin like this:
on a cold, cold night
memorizing escape routes
kissing the foreheads of small children
hiding accat in our pockets,
a rosary for safekeeping.
Or, married off to men thirty years our elders
big house, big job, big, striking hands.
Or, thinking of the mouths to feed.
At times
we begin in silence;
water making its way into our bodies—
rain, or tears, or black and red seas
until we are ripe with longing.
