My mother left her mother,
two sisters, a father
and my father left his childhood home and they took me with them but I felt no loss because I hadn’t had the chance to fall in love with the country that gave me this skin and blood.
From two suitcases, my parents built a home. They never thought they would stay but now their daughters don’t speak the same language.
Of my mother tongue I only can grasp phrases,
linguistically orphaned, culturally converted,
struggling to yank out the roots of words that should have been written into my spine. I grew up on a fault line.
And yet, when the earth beneath me starts to shake, I look up, and wonder:
Am I the same as them?