We dont talk about

We don’t talk about
what immigration feels like enough
to the degree
that I don’t know how to describe
what being an immigrant feels like enough

only say things like
I am not this
but also no longer that enough to say it
no sure what side of the ocean holds my home
being in America
has felt a bit like

a permanent type of temporary

and as confusing as that might sound
that is the best way I think I’ve ever described it
and it feels just like that
meaning
it feels
as confusing as that might sound.

When they ask me to speak my native language
I do
unless there are others of my type around
then I become hesitant
scared that my native language has become less native than theirs
scared
I am but a mere google translation away
from wrong
from I forgot the word for that
to
you know it doesn’t really translate over
like my dad
never fails tell me
that I do not
get picked up from the airport
I am not some thing that gets picked up
I am some thing that get’s met there
he says it in this way
that always translates to me as wrong
and how do I not know better by now?

It is a strange thing
that as the years go by
I actually grow out of my language
instead of into it
lose words instead of gain them.
Do you know what it’s like?
To be so impressed by the native vocabulary of your 7 year old nephew
wonder if you can ever grow back into being young
and home
and Russian
and Russian enough
and not
“I was 4 years old,”
“oh, so like, you’re actually basically from here.”
Fuck you.
Fuck you to every person who has let those words slip from their mouth.
I do not have a good argument
other than
you have no fucking idea what it feels like
to live in this permanent type of temporary.

My home
was only as American as my father ever allowed
which means
we are still not allowed to speak English within those walls
and on one hand
I am grateful for every Russian word that has forced itself into forever
but on the other
I do not know how to love every cell that has regenerated itself on the land
the he will never call home
and when they ask me where I’m from
I never know if I should say Colorado
or Russia
I’ve decided to package it up with, “originally,”
I have become
as lost about my blood as every person whose decided to tell me
its type.

It has taken me 29 years to write this poem
and every year that has passed I have grown
further from my original home
it has become ghost town
always haunting but we never know which parts of it are real.

And do I even remember anything?

I remember leaving
I remember feeling forever at the age of four
knowing in every part of my being that some goodbyes
are permanent
I remember crying, and pain,
and maybe this is why I panic on airplanes
some trauma
never leaves your body
and most people don’t know how to talk about it
because we never fucking talk about it
but I think I’m finally ready
to start.