American Hay Fever

I sneeze and therefore I am
not of this kindling landscape,
this ocean cold and roiling as the night

that steals in through the windows
of the house where my family gathers,
a cacophony of glass-edged syllables rocking

I am a daughter born of softer climes
where salted words coat my tongue,
mango fresh, firm, and wet in my hand,
the same size and shape as a human heart