Manifest

The migrant feminist will not show you all her faces.

The migrant feminist thinks in generations; in this sense, death is necessarily 
a comma.

The migrant feminist washes, feeds, builds, plucks, sets ablaze, digs, flays, rips, dries, paints, kneads, wipes, testifies, lies, brays, stabs, crawls, lubricates, trims, guts, slaps, mantles, damns, disturbs.

The migrant feminist hears cicadas and (mis)takes them for a theory of what comes and goes, for waking.

The migrant feminist is unattached to ancestors and their judgments like spoiled fruit.

The migrant feminist rewrites passive sentences in the night revealing 
subject, predicate, object while the baby sucks on her.

The migrant feminist weeps at the stupidest things: a boy in the food court, his plate of spaghetti splattered on the ground. The father is yelling and 
yelling. The boy’s whole being is hunger.

The migrant feminist laughs.

The migrant feminist practices a different faith for every language she speaks. English, the mother of order. Bahasa, the eternity of boats.

The migrant feminist forgives, ruthlessly.

The migrant feminist makes not being a hero work.

The migrant feminist is a kite in the wind, and the wind.

The migrant feminist studies other people’s histories of themselves, because what one cannot have, one cherishes.

The migrant feminist makes no claims on land. The migrant feminist makes love to hyperbole.

The migrant feminist is the simultaneity of swirling things and electrified wire. Therefore, a passion for windows, an interrogative stance toward bolt-cutters.

The migrant feminist chooses whom she belongs to.

Ghosts light up her life.