American Hay Fever

By Teresa Pham-Carsillo

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

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