There’s a pain in the heart as if it’s sore from walking too far past mountains,
looking for another cavity to beat in

My country, though I wasn’t your birth-child 
you still folded me in 
where I took root

Tell me your name 
so I can write it in the blank lines between stars

I said I’m not a poet.
A writer, but not the poet kind.
I know, I know. It’s strange to hear.

Mother who nurtures you 
in one gesture weans you 
and cradles the world.