To Want the Wide American Earth

— after Carlos Bulosan

In my mouth is a country of longing
The bittersweet of border crossings

Some words don't come easy—scarce, scars
English is a language of leaving

a lexicon of who invaded
and what they left behind. I taste

what passes for shrimp paste, build a life
around shifts and routes. First train leaves

before first light, the last one before
midnight. Transport me with the sight

of filtered light. In my mouth is a country
of bittersweet crossings. Say namamahay

in English in the only space I will
ever occupy: this expanse of longing.