blackgirl on mars: notes on a life in copenhagen (or how my alienation brings me closer to people).

There are Only so many Things an Immigrant Mommy Can do. She can Carry Key Food Grocery Bags In each hand Full of Refined Sugar, a gallon Of milk, white Rice & white Bread— Food, Stripped Of all It’s Value… You can Call home From A Phone-booth With a Stolen Credit Card & say Everything Is all right, While your Children Gather About your Knees. When you Are in The silence Of your Brooklyn room, You Can get On both Knees, light Colorful Candles To Saints & pray that they do All you Can’t like: Give you Strength, Pay your Bills & Protect You from Your husband. You can Load a Washing machine With the tattered Clothes of your Family, Make cow- Heal soup & dumplings on Sundays & make That Orange Juice Stretch. You can Visit Your Children Locked Up In Their Room & Co...

When was the last time You saw a Dandelion Squeezing between The cracks of a sidewalk, Picked it from the piss- Smelling ground Brought it to your nose And blew at it? When was the last time You took your shoes and socks off to enjoy the coolness of the grass Between your brown toes? Or sucked in Un-polluted air, All the way down to your Navel Or let your hair Get wet?