heavy named girl, 

Your value is that of the anchor tied to your feet, the depth of your mother’s tongue when she looked upon you,

saw your grandmother’s eyes in your soft brown face and

A big city.

Different people,

Modern architecture,

A whole world to explore.

I have so many secrets to tell you through soft poems and open mouthed kisses on rosy flushed cheeks of best friends turned lovers and onto mothers and peaches bought from roadside shacks on small town access roads; toothy grins slyly hanging onto our faces —  

I sit 

in a green plastic booth

Sandwiched between a purple table 

and a streaky orange wall

I keep my fingers squished into my ears 

while I watch a librarian chase a girl my age around 

The way they teach poetry in schools

Is not the only way it can be written

               Structured stanzas

             and 

  parallel pantoums

mango juice drips from my fingers seeps into the brown dirt dirt that holds roots that reach across countries roots that stitch together centuries roots that spread and cannot be confined mango juice drips from my fingers plunges to the earth earth my mother raced across earth that felt the weigh

(A palindrome poem meant to be read top to bottom,and then bottom to top)