I do call my skin green—olive, my mother corrects

     but she is a peach with a blue passport. everybody loves

               a summer peach

     my vocabulary and fears grow in parallel—olives

are an acquired taste. olives are not for everyone

     my first word in English was yes. they do like yes

               they issue me a name the locals can pronounce, a name

           I can never crawl out of—can you see

     me

                                   I’m in here

                        English sows itself in the hollow of my veins

           a ruthless, invasive plant, adept

     at choking       lilies and orange kiswar that used to grow

           there—I want

     to be beautiful. look at this mangled garden. tell me you love

me. tell me it gets better with age