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The Family Stump MAG
My family stump.
Names I'm supposed to remember but what I remember are eyes
watered-down blue/99%-pure-cacao chocolate
eyes staring into the past.
Stuck in dark memories, stories I'm supposed to remember
but what I remember is a
gooey fuchsia pink great-grandma kiss
oh-so-delighted to see you, my-how-much-you've grown
watered-down clouded-up blue eyes squint and guess wrong –
no, that's not my name, no, not that either.
How can she remember the price of a pencil skirt 50 years ago
but doesn't know my name?
I can't complain – I've forgotten hers.
On the other side of my family stump
people whose names I can't pronounce
they know me somehow, and marvel
this white skin, these Western clothes.
I don't understand a word they say
'cause I'm just a rich American feeling inferior here
but I'm greeted,
blessed and showered with love
I don't deserve.
So I melt away into the bark
stand quietly and don't look up
the odd one out, black sheep of the herd
the one with the hazel eyes.