Second Generation Immigrant

Where are you from? They ask, and I tell them.

"You don't look like it."

How do I respond to that?

A palm tree, swaying,

Left and right, front and back, (Up and Down),

Not on the Beach, not near the Ocean,

Inland enough to draw an eye.

They look at it in a peculiar manner.

Sometimes, a breeze blows,

and carries a hint of salt.

The breeze means to caress,

Yet it strings.

The tree cringes.

I'm not from my homeland.

I'm not from this country.

I'm somewhere in between.

In this salad bowl, I am

the oily residue clinging to the sides.

My leaves rustle,

With the help of this wind.

A curse that became a blessing.

They close their eyes and perk their ears,

And look at me less strangely.