We burned off our fingerprints on the
kitchen stove. We were in a secret covenant
 
involving blue eyed blonde haired idolatry
and hated ourselves for it. We grew up
 
to fill the clichés expected by a white girl who
just doesn’t understand who’s name begins with
 
A and ends with Of The Free. Our lunch boxes we
abandoned on the playground just like the tongue
 
and touch of our mothers and their mothers.
We take a long time, sometimes forever
 
 to regrow our ashed whorls and arches.
To go to the lost and found and find mother’s
 
kimbaphas been rolled into a full circle that
we come to as we march towards this Justice
 
For All that escapes our lips at approximately eight AM on
weekdays. We hate to make food a metaphor
 
for ourselves, our duties, but I just need to know
I can find my way back.