My mother’s hands have hit the pavement before.

She came star spangled

and shocked,

searching for my body underneath the stone.

Face to the floor,

she listened for the echoes of the wave.

I was born on Independence day

I blossomed from the dust,

climbed through cracks of smashed concrete,

and danced with the buzz of the birds

returning for spring.

I lived in the soursop of the trees,

the laughter of the leaves,

tiny enough to hug with a hand,

to crush with a kiss.

Grinning, my hands on my hips,

I craned my head to a Guinean sun.

My mother says it’s a new millennium,

so I’m picking the debris out of my ears

I'm making my way out of no way.