“Humanity is fundamentally a story of migration.”
—Laila Lalami
I am the son
of the ones who left
in search of a better life
or in fear for their lives.
Of those expelled or uprooted
in chains.
Photograph by Kelly DuMar
I am the son of
the young Zamoran conscript
whose sad valley vanished
behind a field of red poppies.
The son of
the French venturer who,
sniffing the scent of Terror,
bolted for his life.
The child of
his Danish wife,
his Saint Thomian son,
his Puerto Rican grandson.
I am the child of
the Taíno woman
seized from her bohío,
uprooted
from her loves and
from her gods of stone,
raped
into bequeathing me
her Amerindian blood.
The child of
the Senegalese woman
who persisted,
the Portuguese sailor who
defied the horizon,
the wandering Berber who
crossed the burning sands . . .
Of the Irish migrant,
the Scottish clansman,
the defiant Basque,
All
heeding
the call of life.
The child
of the ones who left.
Smoky Quartz 