Goddam the Moon and Weather

Don’t judge us for the diaspora when

The game ends with magical changes

Approaching the line we think we know

What it means the original portent the inlet

Freezing before we have a chance to kiss

The frosted glass of school bus windows

Lips fused to great-grandmother’s embroidered

Goose steps the insistent punch punch punch

Faint hope for familial but blurred blue eyes

We throw sand in our eyes and run naked

We breakfast on the veranda and watch

Our baby grow poor little kitten lost puss

We don’t want to be but we are

A mildly frowning ribbon floating on the air