Talons

By H. G.

Your mother was right,
again.
Not about everything.
But right about me and her
and our people
and our talons.

I’m always a little proud
when she admits I’m one of her people
and she’s one of mine
and that our people are tough.

She and I suffer from the same
inescapable,
paternally given,
ethnic stamp: Yemeni.

We both ran from it.
Yet I somehow enjoy
that amidst our mutual disdain,
we still belong to each other,
her and I.

And that she knows it
because she still asks
and warns you
about me.

But she was right.
We do have talons.
And we don’t let go.

You
are only a quarter
to her half
and my whole

But that means
you have talons, too.

Dug deep in flesh
digging deeper
every time we talk again
for hours
after months of silence.

Old wounds
fresh blood

I don’t think I’m the only one
not letting go.

 

H.G. is an American poet based in New York. She holds a MA in history and is currently working on her first novel-in-verse.