We didn’t know yet that
we were immigrants too,
as we watched West Side Story
when we first came to America.
We didn’t know how we would
miss our island as Jets hung
off fire escapes colourful as
anole lizards cling to a stalk.
Jack Knifed into whatever
emergency position the slums
required like a Boy’s Scout tool
for survival. We did not know as
we sat in tartan kilts, Shetland sweaters,
stayed at The Plaza, how we would
miss the fauna as their girlfriends
twirled in skirts the pink of hibiscus.
That out hearts would storm for
territory, be at war with America,
reject a romantic union with
the new world. A part of us would
die like the hero, his wound
blood bright as a poppy we sold
on Front St. for Armistice Day
to honour whom did not surrender.
Published in New Welsh Review (UK)
