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