An international death

of mother land—kin,

over the Pacific Ocean.

Everybody yt watched

my rebirth happen

at the LAX arrival gate.

Fatigued from pushing/

baggage that held

my whole youngin’ life.

At twelve; not much

comes along when

passing half-empty.

Tired, wide-bagged eyes

carried non-english

belongings—

a non-english belly;

a non-english naivety.

I cried at heart (choked) so

the bystanders would think

I’ve always been here.

I acted stag-strong.

It’s a feeling of loss

& becoming.

I crossed immigration line

with suspicions

like Dante passing

the gates to inferno:

lasciate ogne speranza, voi chi'intrate

Welcome to America! my uncle Virgil greeted.