Ethiopia meant two things: 

low birthweight, Greek for burned face.

Ash, there are moments when

the whole world closes in on itself,

some wicked proof or dying ember.

Angels of defilement scrape

the sky clean. Paint-by-numbers

shows through imperfectly

like stained glass social workers

made your folks replace.

The agency said too much lead

to let in baby you.

Now, as you ready yourself

for another change of address,

pencil marks on a bedroom

doorframe painted over

reveal growth measured

as loss. How dare I

call this haven, Ash, this sanctuary

home, you twice unmothered,

this far from Africa, answerable

questions, feasts

for vacationing gods?

Love, like any name,

is adopted—nectar of mooring

nurture. Your visage flames

darkest roses. How hard you tried

to express nothing, the face

of having nothing to say.

Where does the emptiness

come from, knowing

there’s nothing but illusion

with which one fills the void.