TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Grace Nichols

Not from the equatorial sun or sailing moon or shooting stars of black tadpoles – If I were to meet the ghost of my childhood – I would kneel beside her for a while – this slip of a brown girl gazing at fish shapes under brown sunlit water – patwa, sunfish, butterfish – mesmerized by their movement and the silent scales of their music. Then I’d straighten up leaving her in her elementary world, her bright aloneness. Oblivious of me.

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