Hola Bonita

I collapse into her arms, my mama who

birthed me and though I tower over her

and have babies of my own, I feel a sort

reentry to the womb. And I cry tears I

have been holding in, afraid the sound

of myself would deafen me to the sirens

that save me. And two hours later in what

is her night and maybe my tomorrow

but day three of my journey I don’t

remember what day it is, we are sitting

at the kitchen table where she would

feed little me oatmeal with brown

sugar and butter but tonight I am

drinking coffee out of a mug that says,

Hola Bonita, and she says, you’ve lost

your glow. And I tell her it is more than

the war, that the war reminded me

of a secret I forgot and I say, he

tried to kill me, and she nods because

she knows, and two coffees later

now well into her morning I ask if

she has pajamas I can borrow and

she hands me Christmas flannel

pj’s with snowmen and holly and

put the softness to my face, on this,

the first night of Pesach. The day I

left Egypt, and as I start to take off

the jeans I’ve been wearing for

three days I see my left pantleg is

covered in blood and then see a

gash in my right finger surrounded

by dry caked blood. And I wonder

when and how and now about all

the wounds, hidden in sinews and silence.