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World Poetry Day

Twenty-Two

The age my mother and I emigrated to cities


we had never been, years apart

but some things were the same:


same church-like shuffle

down the jetway,


same keyhole window seeping light.

Same long-haul flight leaving us


sand-tongued, the chilled air

a punch in the face


when she landed mid-winter.

Surrounded by concrete towers,


she dropped the first payslip

down a gutter,
the snow landing like large moths.

And me from Vancouver to Glasgow,


35 Kelvinhaugh Gate, a flat so damp

I slept in a wool hat for months


and got lost coming back from a place

I'd been twice, so in a pub's doorway


I spread out my map, leaf-thin.

Once I heard her say,


"twenty-two is the age I left Manila"...

left the only patch of land she knew


to wonder as I did, on that cold step:

should I go back, or have I begun again?

Theresa Muñoz

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