by Aline Mello

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.

Aline Mello is a Brazilian writer and editor living in Atlanta. She is an Undocupoet fellow and her work has been published or is upcoming Atlanta Review, Georgia Review, The New Republic, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thealinemello, and online at