the family spills like sand, through neighborhoods,
across borders, so much like me, like them
though we know so little of this, the wide streets
and wisteria, skinny palms so considerate and
forgiving and people, people of every color and size
their languages and voices and menus fill us up like
so many years of quiet, of sameness and I know,
this is why I bring my children to my homeland,
to know their grandmother and her wise and rule-
breaking ways, to know their aunties and cousins,
the seas and sunsets and lemons as big as their heads,
a fancy musical on a real stage, the black boys sing
acapella out front and Eliana watches enraptured,
Solomon darts around massive fountains and the valet
costs more than dinner, though I sure do love to hear
mariachis and how sweet to sit all together at Buster's
and share smoothies, the same one we ordered in
sixth grade, perhaps there are a few things that actually
stay the same, my love for them all, my ridiculous
preoccupation with place and how we get from here to there.
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