The Leaving

To enter America, she stole 

the Atlantic, enough to make

a path to carry children across.

Every mile of sediment, clay 

she plied to statues. Her brothers 

now monuments in her mind.

On her back, I slept a journey. 

She whispered, Leave 

our language behind, afraid 

it would become blood

on my tongue. Not knowing, 

in our new land, 

feet never dried. 

Half-breed turned hemlock.

My mother, my rope 

through the sea, my vine. 

Memory a changeling

from one day to another.

A Nigerian proverb

that when you lose your bridge,

climb down 

the mountain. I took 

my mother’s feet and became

the leaving never the shore. 

I arrived on my mother’s back

language’s orphan,

a two-citizen child with no country.

Still wake homesick with no home

to ill towards, listening

for what English does 

to my blood.