You were born into a room
drenched in the stench of hydraulic oil.
Your Mama won’t let you forget this.

She says that we came here
because there was no work elsewhere
and bartending on Queens Boulevard
was better than brick-laying in Germany and
Papa was running from the army.

The week after your thirteenth birthday,
she tells you God made the best men
with hands of stone-
heavy and worked and grey
like river water when it wraps
around skin and bone.

“Home is here,” she points to a
small spot on the map
surrounded by cold water,
and kisses your head
from across the oceans.

Papa comes through the door every
night at nine, coughs and says
he would have a much better job
if he could somehow lose his accent.
Mama nods,
wipes the grease off his hands,
and pours him a glass from the sink.

Somehow he still smiles
and folds his calloused fingers
tight over your white palms
the day you turn eighteen though he knows
you are now a woman.

“Love carefully.”
Your Mama won’t let you forget this.