Rarely do I think of my roots

Rarely do I think of my roots
you are not a tree, a friend comments
I know, I can feel it in my body

rarely do I think of my roots
perhaps as a way of negating
the fact that I spit out the tongue I have- twice

once for envy, the second time
for complications beyond my name
beyond my origin

beyond the tree planted
that bleeds olive oil
in the absence of rain

or mothers that mourn life
by giving birth to children
who are sent to loss, as temporary gifts

rarely do I think of my origin
at the small hour
when the fever of words haunt me

rarely do I think of having the East
poured inside of me, spices, silk
trade-route, wars, women who were once power

now craved for power to be
to speak, to learn to stand up
after breaking a back for a smile

rarely do I think of a food
that ties my stomach to my heart
one I reject, then gracefully crave when alone

rarely do I think that I originate
from the world's longest oozing sore,
that still bleeds because it keeps giving birth
to humans like me.