I put aside his smile,
examined his hands.
He is ungrateful of my gesture,
the glowing skin now layers dirty flakes,
resembling the foreign newspapers he treasures like gold.
It is those familiar letters,
his comprehension of them which have kept him spirited,
in the land they promised dreams would arrive,
he has grown impatient, folding and unfolding
headlines that won’t change.
He avoids the date covering it with his thumb,
as he turns pages, they cave into his thighs,
exhausted as a lover begging for rest,
he grips them with more resolve,
mind set on drifting through the print .
At night he confides in me the way they must ,
his mother translates dreams he chuckles childishly,
he is a prize raconteur, tracing expressions of his subjects
using the fruits I offered as puppets, never once indulging
I have never known such pride.
If I never see the sun,
he sings in the shower and stops ,
continues in a language that is no longer foreign,
I have begun aching for the home he remembers
committing to heart each morning news that won’t change.
k.eltinaé 