The apple has forgotten the tree,
though it will still be recognized
as its fruit. its scattered seeds speak
generational agonies. an inheritance
my body betrays. the wretched width
of my shoulders knows cyrillic
letters. it mourns the war and
for family tragedies I do not know.
The bones of my face remember
their fatherland but can’t recognize
its language– a tongue I see
with the same foreignness
that any american hears.
The identity of my father’s blood is lost,
nationless and transient.
it has no way home.
I inherited a seed,
but no soil here
will let it root.

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