Indigenous

A trail of dirt followed me

wherever I went.

Down the stairs

in the car

in my family room

in the bathroom

but my mother didn’t yell at me

because the dirt I left was red

the same red in the dirt under my nails

and my shoulders

burnt from the winter sun

down below the equator

where the red dirt was from.

Traveling ten thousand miles

on my hiking shoes,

twenty-four hours on the plane

to get to my living room

where my mom is currently rearranging

my art into a plastic bag

to show to everyone

how magnificently rust the color is

marveling about where it is from

under my shoes,

under the bare feet of a family of twelve

living in a box made of sheet metal

flimsy in the winter moon wind

cramped and cold

and burning under the broiling winter sun

blistering on the red dirt 

while my mother sits at home

protected by four walls and a roof

under the mild summer sun

unaware about how far that dirt has traveled

how much it has gone through

to get to where am I now

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world

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