Decolonialish Self-Portrait

I remember myself;
—a chair, turning—
a desperate blue tunnel
crossing the mirror
in the lavender hour.
I remember myself;
a corner of sunlight
on the bed sheet rotating
a violence, words that die
before meaning:
relentless shredded threads.
I remember myself;
sky chained to torture,
futurity chokes:
an ancient throat melts
in my posing.
I remember myself;
a swipe in the dust
on my dresser, a drawer full 
of rotten Christian teeth.

Copyright © 2023 by Sara Borjas. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 9, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets. 

Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast 

  

“As a colonized person, I struggle with the feeling that I was never meant to exist. It is hard to feel real or true or good when you are aware you have been raped, over centuries, into existence. So, in my effort to feel valid, I look to return in some way, but I get lost when I think: to what? To whom? To decolonize would mean to return land and resources. When I try to remember some spirit or place I could return to, I find myself searching for memories I don’t have. I always disappear at Christianity.”
—Sara Borjas