bombs erupted behind us once,

my brother and I clutched each others hands,

his callouses from molding pottery,

slanting over the ridges of my skin,

the folds of his hands,

clasping holding mine. 

our limbs were tired once,

hours of sprinting next to our mother, 

the rhythm of our feet,

beating on time with the discordant music

of shots ringing behind us,

of the Russian invasion.

we were denied asylum once,

our mother quickly able to cross into Poland,

the dark skin from our father, 

holding us back, 

like the calluses on our hands, 

weren’t the same as those of the people around us.

we were afraid (or was it safe?) once,

red, white and blue painting

our fingertips as we worked in New York,

the clay easily molding over my brothers fingers,

a radiant smile on his shining face,

pottery had never come easily to me.

i was ashamed once,

my brother praised and revered,

for his talented fingers

the accent from home washed out of his mouth,

while my creaky joints and thick tongue couldn’t 

fit the mold.

i stay ashamed now, 

my brother a refugee to be trusted,

to be kept safe for his contributions,

my washing of dishes

a stolen job

a shame 

a stain on the word “refugee.”