In Place of Identity

Emma Keany

I have:
A few stray words—
Sitto, jiddo, sahha, kaak bi halib.
A single recipe I eat every morning.
A few stray hand-me-downs—
A golden cross I never wear, a stuffed bear, a plush snake.
My nose, my leg hair, my bad attitude.
A few stray memories—
A blurry fireplace, a house in the snow, a dusty garage.
The smell of my aunt’s house.
A few stray connections—
A piece of wordplay, an occasional jolt of recognition, a distant mourning.
The familiar sound of lesbian, the similar face we wear, the similar tears we shed.

Is it enough to identify? Is it enough to speak with my father’s family a few times a year? Is it enough to love them from a distance? Is it enough to see a banquet of song and dance and recognize my nose, my brows, my sideburns? Is it enough to see my father’s face in a martyr’s and feel I could cry? Is it enough to bake? Is it enough to butcher my few words? Is it enough to stay where I am?