My body has known the loss of identity

But my mouth couldn’t speak it—

          my language was empty.

My loss was known in the way I longed…

          to belong,

          to be known,

          to seem unwrong.

My loss of identity is shown in how I deal…

          with stress,

          with friends,

          I morph to appeal.

My loss of culture is obvious in my speech…

          no rolling of the “r”,

          no emphatic sounds,

          just a reach.

Trying to communicate with a native and panicking to remember

those lessons taught in high school—the vocabulary, the grammar.

My lack of finesse because I don’t feel at home in my own skin

is true of me now and was true of me then.

My mom stroked my hair as she claimed my beauty.

“Girls would kill for these waves—one day you will see!”

“So, what are you?” they would ask, or more like declare.

I stuck out. I knew it, could tell from their glare.

“I don’t see color when I look at you,” he said.

I forced myself to nod my head.

In Peru I tried to avoid the subject

but locals were puzzled so I explained with regret.

After my jagged story was told in Spanish,

I was exhausted, embarrassed, and terribly famished.

Hungry for belonging, wanting to go home

To the only person who saw me—yet I’d never be her own

Flesh and blood— 

that’s what I craved.

But when my babies were born,

I still felt worlds away.

Were they actually mine?

Is this really how it feels

To hold something that resembles you?

It felt so surreal.

I despise the comments that their features are not in my favor.

But when I’m told she is my clone,

that is what I savor.

The sweet taste of being someone’s root:

She will grow and rise,

blossom and bear fruit.

She’ll be able to hear, “You have your mom’s eyes,”

Or, “I remember when I was pregnant with you—it caught me by surprise.”

She won’t ever look at me and wonder,

“Was I her first choice, or was I just a blunder?”

She won’t think of her existence as a last resort,

          a replacement for something,

          instead of a reward.

She is me, I am she.

Yet some parts to her are still a mystery.

Because, though I carried her for some time,

We’ll only know this one branch of our ancestral vine.