Gising

This poem was written by Steffi Tad-y in a 12-Month Poetry Collection Generator taught by Angel Nafis.

I can’t remember
if it were barbed wire
or bits of beer glass
the bougainvillea towered over,
or an orange boomerang
then a scar under my eye.
One day, I want to retire
from seeing only the spectacle.
Live long enough
to grow with my hands.
Press one’s fingers into the dirt.
Gather beans. Make of it a warm bowl.
Feed my child.  

Muscle a cramped road.
This is my signal. Today, I will celebrate.
Here is a grandfather
in a bucket hat, bobbing
to Purple Rain.
Sunflowers from Sxótsaqel
spring out of his car window
while a basset hound says hello.
Earlier, my nephew had a thread
around his two milk teeth.
His mother by the door.
I wish you were there to see him.
The way he said wow.
In our language, to wake up
rhymes with blessing.
The sun is
beginning to line my irises.
My niece, how she sings
Baby Shark.
What else can I tell you?
Let us go.
There is side-street parking.
The ticket machine
looks like a pair of binoculars
across an orchid mural.
Keys & raincoat are on the table.
I have been late all this time.