from the photograph by Margaret Bourke-White - from July 2017
you have my eyes, large and oval,
you strain away from the camera,
charred by the ashes of the past,
staring with rapture at nothing.
you have my nose, wide and crooked,
you are suffocating on the
young country’s old air. you survived:
a stranger among ancestors,
born on the wrong side of a new
imaginary line, riding
trains with fifteen million strangers –
ancestors. you sit with bare feet
below your folded legs, hands pressed
against your head, you search for home.
and if you could look back through that
lens to the other side across
time, would you still stare at nothing?
that camp is now a capital
of my independent nation
with highways and underpasses
and bullet trains.