I.

 

My name is too hard

for you to pronounce

so I changed it.

 

My hair is too wild so I

tamed it.

 

My clothes are too

strange so

I wear yours.

 

My skin is

too dark

so I lightened it.

 

My tongue is wrong so I

cut

it

out.

 

 

II.

 

I crawled to your door

                                 but I knocked

                                                           too loudly

so I must stay

                     outside.

 

I must take off

                      my shoes

 

before I can enter,

                            I must take off

                                                       my feet,

 

I must take off my face

                                    and every other part

that offends.

 

I must

        climb into the melting pot

                                                       and wait

 

until the marrow of me

                                   dissolves

into soup,

 

              until the bones

                                       of who I was

can be discarded,

 

while the simmering stock of

                                                who I must

                                                                 become

cries out

             for salt and spice.

©  2020 Valerie Valdes