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l'heritage (english)

this is from the los angeles youth poet laureate finals, and usually i would not do a poem this personal, and one that applies to many more people than myself, but my mom asked me to (she filmed it) also it's black and white because the original lighting was literally orange and i'm not a latke words: my mother says, bloom where you are planted and french canals kept her watered she colors my eyes as parisian rain she tells me of the southern sands with beach umbrellas like the candies she’d bring back in pink tins she would tuck me in at night with borrowed maps, whispering that we were here, in the barges and bakeries she did not say that we are also in the soil and air she feeds me quiche l’oignon but i grew most on the longing for my grandmother’s grandmother’s village, le village de la mere de sa mere de sa mere encore i have never seen my mother’s france, of mossy sidewalks and blessed memory or the town she thinks was ours, before the first brick was laid for auschwitz she has to show me postcards instead of family pictures i am always too young to hear of the murders but mom swears my bones are strong as rock and i know that every step i take is in mourning etre juive/to be jewish is to be born during a funeral flowers do not garnish the graves, they are for the living, they don’t grow fast enough but there will always be more stones to stack in the cemetery, by a school, a bleeding kosher market i am always nine hours behind translating headlines i am so tired of counting, un dead, trois dead, quatre dead i am tired of conjugating, courir to run, tuer to kill but everything sounds beautiful en francaise, non? even the slurs have a crystal echo although i do not care for the dagger that follows je veux fleurir comme la rose de l’ete maman i want to bloom like a summer rose ima save me from being cut like toulouse and marseilles and paris and paris and paris because i know that we too belong here, in our friday dinners and perfume but the catacombs are seething maman tell me again about my grandmother’s grandfather, le grand rabbi du paris do not think of how he would fall, learning that in january, his synagogue closed on shabbat for the first time since the german occupation ima tell me about the painted ceilings, in so many more colors than red i say that we are still going home no ash could ever keep us but this is our life now, watching the white roses my nana planted pull scarlet from the earth it comes in drops and streaks, how deep their roots must reach when i was younger, i would lick rainwater off the petals and think, this is what love tastes like now i know that it is the salt on your lips, with a lullaby so soft, the metal can’t find you quand il me prend dans ses bras il me parle tout bas je vois la vie en rose   / mermaideleh   thegeekyblonde.tumblr.com instagram: @mermaideleh