2022-06-10 #writing/poetry #poem-a-day
brown paper bag I didn’t pay for this bag. it came with the order. Staple-lined mouth, clamped shut, a silenced tree i carry back.
the bag is heavy with fruits, exploited labor, my brothers & sisters in race, but estranged through their struggle. We give
grace for being lucky, springing from our hard work, to claim an identity we didn’t want, shedding skin the way our parents taught us
when they crawled across the ocean & foraged with a broken language for the treasure said to be found in the land of free, “a life
of opportunity.” they came searching for the gold city of legends. We are their compasses. Our life trajectories pointing at a nice home, a stable job, & steady
life of dreams, if we’re not defective. otherwise, the future is uncertain. pointing here & there, nowhere. first towards passions of fooling & then lies of being someone
tempting fate to bring us back into communion with our forgotten family. Bag-packers & dish-cleaners & street-hawkers, wilting slowly,
the rot almost invisible. Just leftovers left in the back of the fridge, brown & forgotten.
brown paper bag I didn’t pay for this bag. Paper & brown, it came with the order. Staples line its mouth, clamped shut, a silenced tree i’m carrying back.
the bag is heavy with fruits of exploited labor, my brothers & sisters in race, but forgotten in their struggle, while we
give our blessings for being lucky to claim an identity we didn’t want shedding the skin we were born with the way our parents prepared us
when they crawled across the ocean & foraged with a broken language for the treasure said to be found in the land of the free, “a life of opportunity.”
they came in search of gold in the city hidden by legends. We are their compasses. Our life trajectories pointing towards a nice home & a stable job, a steady life
of dreams, if we’re not defective. otherwise, we point in all kinds of crazy ways. towards passions of fooling & lies of being someone
tempting fate to bring us back into communion with our estranged family. Bag-packers & dish-cleaners & street-hawkers, wilting slowly
almost invisible. Leftovers left in the back of the fridge, brown & forgotten.
brown paper bag I didn’t pay for this bag. Paper & brown, it came with the order. Staples line its mouth, clamped shut, a silenced tree i’m carrying back.
the bag is heavy with fruits of exploited labor, my brothers & sisters in race, but forgotten in their struggle, while we
give our blessings for being lucky to claim an identity we didn’t want shedding the skin we were born with the way our parents prepared us
when they crawled across the ocean & foraged with a broken language for the treasure said to be found in “a life of opportunity.”
they came in search of gold in the city hidden by legends, we are their compasses. Our life trajectories pointing towards a nice home & a stable job, a steady life
of dreams, if we’re not defective. otherwise, we point in all kinds of crazy ways. towards passions of fooling & lies of being someone
tempting fate to bring us back into communion with our estranged family. Bag-packers & dish-cleaners & street-hawkers, wilting slowly
almost invisible, leftovers left in the back of the fridge, brown & forgotten.