American Hay Fever

I sneeze and therefore I am

not of this kindling landscape,

this ocean cold and roiling as the night

                      that steals in through the windows

          of the house where my family gathers,

          a cacophony of glass-edged syllables rocking

I am a daughter born of softer climes

where salted words coat my tongue,

mango fresh, firm, and wet in my hand,

the same size and shape as a human heart