When we speak Portuguese, our voices
are the same, echoes of our mother’s.
In a room filled with people who say
we look more like cousins, you are
a planet. You have your own pull and I
become a moon. Sister, what is this
sticky comfort that comes with knowing you
know me? My father left me, and so did yours.
I was made to leave my country behind,
and you came too. We wore handmade
clothing to the airport. Linen. With hats,
like we were from another time. I know you
can sing and choose not to. I know you
ignore your anxiety until it takes over
your body. There is so much unsaid.
But we don’t want to say them.
And we can blame our father for choosing
between us. In the end, we will sit in a station,
watch the trains go by. And there will be you.
And there will be me.
