To Assimilation

Yesterdays ago, our names bled

into American tongues,

syllables melding into poison—

yes, how dirty it is to be able

to exist. They carry in their palms: fistfuls

of scalding White venom, borne from

freedom– a remedy: no.

a recipe for liberty: no.

a weapon: yes.

So let us turn nameless for this miraged country,

to melt languidly through eagled crevices:

this is why we scatter our names to form anagrams of

strangers. There will be no timeline linear enough

to sustain our language. No compact universe to carry our

bloodline.

Tonight, we may rupture the pistol’s muzzle aimed towards

the sky. The gunpowder igniting into home, or what

was left of it. Tell me I may return to

Pacific waters and

maybe I can learn

to inhabit

that American body.