By José Olivarez
forgive my geography, it’s true i’m obsessed
with maps. with flags. a Starbucks on the block
means migration. any restaurant with bulletproof glass
is a homecoming. underneath my gym shoes
is a trail of salt. that last sentence is a test.
does the poet mean:
(a) grief
(b) winter
(c) diaspora
(d) this is the wrong question
(e) all of the above
i’m always out south
of somewhere. i know the sun rises
in Lake Michigan and sets out west.
i got primos i’ve never met. there’s a word
for that. (where did they go?) all the steel mills shuttering up
like conquered forts. one day, there will be an urban tour
through South Chicago. picture the soy cappuccino-
sipping cool kids wearing Chicago Over Everything-
branded hoodies taking selfies in front of machines
that once breathed fire. pretending the bones
are the real thing.
Source: Poetry (November 2019)
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
poem where no one is deported
now i like to imagine la migra running
into the sock factory where my mom
& her friends worked. it was all women
who worked there. women who braided
each other’s hair during breaks.
women who wore rosaries, & never
had a hair out of place....
now i’m bologna
my parents were born from a car. they climbed out
& kissed the car on its cheek. my grandmother.
to be a first generation person. 23 and Me reports
i am descendant of pistons & drive trains. 33%
irrigation tools. you are what you...
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