mama says the sun tastes better at night
of bed sheets for skin bound to boiled bodies
of landlocked throats and unearthed tombs
tongues wrapped around two languages
while making a home out of dishes left in the sink
words mistaken for goose bumps erect
from lips spewing accents borrowed
from secondhand childhoods
in the lost and found
she tells me to plant my bones
in the grass out front and play pretend
don’t question where we are from
or where we belong just swallow
the dirt and freckles of the earth
and call them dreams