I have a feeling I don’t belong here.
My eyes have been accustomed to this milieu
but my feet are itching to walk a street beyond this.
It is a realm with a voice, no, voices, calling out to me,
with a thick accent, like the roots of the trees on uncharted,
unreached places some people have conceptualized to exist —
I see them, I know them, but I have yet to pack, and leave and go.
On those silent moments, I hear His call, with a language I cannot
situate in a map, or equate with a people, but yes, they breathe, and
yes, they are. When God looks at this speck of me, they are seen, too.
I have feeling this is not my home, for in my dream, I will die in another
place, in another’s arms, not here, where I was cradled from my childhood,
my girlhood hammock. Who would ever think I would have to outgrow a shell
that so far has restricted me from spreading wings I never thought till now, I had,
which takes me to that place. I have yet to know its name, yet to understand how.
That thick accented voice speaks a language I have yet to learn, though I know it so well. It calls on me, reminds me of another call I have learned to understand painfully, not without hesitation, until submission was easier than assertion of a right I do not have, will never have. In that place, I will sing a new song in another language and learn to relate the story with conviction, as if it were, originally my own language I was speaking. There I would learn a lullaby in another tongue, and say “Halleluiah!”, and my brothers will hear their voice in mine.