Acer Sacharrum

fresh out of the plane,

weary eyed and sickly pale, 

I trudge.

deep within my suitcase, I carry a passport I don't want to show to anyone, 

even if they ask for ID. 

Dinner is silent again,

My dad was fired,

And my mom’s tired from working late again,

And I’m trying not to be sick from it all.
 

My sister’s talking about poverty

And how educators get the scraps,

we sat and imagined fireflies

flitting between the tops of the RVs

as the sun disappeared into muggy,

illicit sludge. we realized we both liked

 the sticky-sweet taste of summer