Rootless

When I was a kid, I would ask shyly.

How these very same people who hate me can sit around me smiling

I’d ask, kindly to the adults in my life.

Did you have any immigrants in your class?

They’d chuckle softly

often leaning back and acting as if they were waiting for the thought to cross them

If only by chance.

As if dancing a drunken waltz, they’d finally say in a sort of misstep

“You know, we’re a nation of immigrants”

You learn that as children.

The world around you helping to write your story

Without villains,

Or heroes really, Achilles

Healing comes in the glaring insecurities

revealing themselves

through the next few years—

I was told I don’t make friends so easily,

How would you know?

I make friends but I can’t make a home and so,

The idea of a community eludes me.

My family tree tells me that being rooted, suits me truthfully.

Environmental collapse moves swiftly uprooting trees

Irrespective of depth.

The young ones simply have no anchor