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RECLAMATION

Check all that apply

Bindi.png

The village spoons my mouth,

Yet I burp the title of mother 

into your hands.

Cradled by all these presences,

But I must call you, home

 

No I am not Hindi.

Sometimes I wear a bindi 

Trees do not grow from Indi    alone.

 

I dress in draped fabric,

Littered in gold and silver.

I eat food stolen from the streets.

I listen to the rhythm of war drums.

I raise bright kites on Easter.

 

So why is it I fill your name on forms

Why must I call you mother,

When you alone did not raise me

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