Confessions of a Transplant
My first year living in America
the scent of frying garlic
sent me weeping. My eyes
swept the somber avenues,
starving for color. I devoured
the aquamarine of broken glass,
a wire festooned with yellow shoes,
the shower of plum blossoms
on a sidewalk. The memory
of sour mangoes made rivers
in my mouth. At the market, I picked
the greenest nectarines, dredged them
in salt that stung my chapped lips.
Words I hoarded like rock
candy, melted on my tongue
like my too-hard r's. Range Rover, red
robin, river rock. I practiced
into the ear of an empty flagon,
reciting litanies to the saint
of lost things. The walls
echoed with whispers.
Lying lily-still in the goblet
of night, I drank the croons
of nameless birds.
Copyright Credit: Angela Narciso Torres, "Confessions of a Transplant" from What Happens Is Neither. Copyright © 2021 by Angela Narciso Torres. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books, www.fourwaybooks.com.
Source: What Happens Is Neither (Four Way Books, 2021)