by Amy Baskin
—dedicated to the staff of Homeboy Industries and Fr. Greg Boyle
Tell me again all about my roots.
Swab my cheeks. Can you see my tender leaves,
grown from Celtic twigs and exiled Teuton hardwood?
Tell me again all about my mind.
Can you hear it think in agglutinations and honorifics,
home among persimmon, bamboo and Kwanzan branches?
Tell me again all about my soul.
Can you feel it thrive under the canopy
of the world tree, connected by tissues stronger than Quebacho, Gidgee or Rosewood?
Tell me again I don’t hurt when someone tramples our common roots.
They are only roots I know. See how we bleed together when our branches are lopped off. Hold dear our precious grafted heartwood.
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