Who Am I
In the mirror on Vishu morning I see an Indian woman
whose Brooklyn mouth can't form Hindu prayers.
Should I bleach my skin to match my voice?
Should I scrape my tongue to match my face?
I've resigned myself to my fate--
forever asking the sky
"Njan aara?"
In a language my children will never recognize;
with an accent my grandparents will never understand.
I am what my parents feared I may become;
a child whose soul has turned Westward;
a woman whose only memories of Diwali are the flickering lights.
Copyright © Anamika N | Year Posted 2013
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