Denotation 

im•mi•grant
ˈiməɡrənt/
noun

1. my brown hand swallows five a.m. sunshine when i leave gaia’s body christened hope and halcyon. i beat the ground with glory, and dew collides with dream to build its home on my soles. i am too young to call this land foreign soil.
2. my grandmother’s prayers are steel blue: a color that makes the evening american sky light and soft on my eyes come september. five is an age that curls my hand with mercury’s flames, burns my throat with acidic curiosity. i am tired, i am poor, i am one from the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
3. my language sprinkles old rome’s embers upon my mouth; bambuya cannot mean grandmother on america’s tongue, and imbalala cannot serve as the nuts on her welcome table. i am slowly witnessing the death of the new colossus. liberty to ash, justice to dust.

By Changu Chiimbwe

Biography:

Changu Chiimbwe is a sixteen-year-old Zambian writer currently living in New York where she spends too much time indulging in films, philosophy, and politics in addition to writing poetry and prose.