sundays in queens

sundays in queens

i often think about

these sundays in queens:

the small walk-up that inexplicably resembles 

my heart.

or maybe it’s my grandmother 

who waves from the window.

i often think about 

her crow’s feet and 

sunspots from summer days

in a land across the sea.

what is home for an immigrant?

for her, i think

it is her very skin and bones. 

i often think about how

i must have inherited her wide eyes,

her dimples, her sharpness.

what does it mean to live alone  

without souls to collide with? 

but her God lives beside her 

in the planes of her shoulders,

in the curve of her brow. 

my own faith is the thing 

caught between my tongue and my teeth - 

like an insect trapped in amber,

it sits without ambition. 

but if there is a God 

i wonder how many more sundays 

we will spend 

in a land across the cosmos. 

what is home for the faithless? 

for me, i think

it is my very heart.

       - anon