Before my father killed her, my mother spent her evenings telling me the story of how she came to America. Every night, the way she started was with something new.
& yes, my family did raise me right. Yes, / they cleaned their bones & cracked them clean / open to suck. Would fight over cartilage & knuckle/Sip the marrow’s nectar from urn. .
To be imbricated in hundreds of years of colonial violence is to be entangled in colorist logics and stories of loss and belonging that are rarely linear or singular.