Continental Drift

I broke off from the side of a mountain,
broke off like my country did,
broke off with a rope ladder,
an empty musket and a bag half-filled with silver coins,
broke off into flakes of bush and loam and skin.

I broke off into a baptism,
head first broke into the waters,
not sure to come up again,
somehow always coming up again.
I breathed in and felt it like fire,
breathed in and coughed and cried and
came out not dead.

I fought my way into a body,
clawed past Bataan, past Siquijor,
dug my fingernails into a shipwreck,
asked a forest which way was north,
coughed up blood in the shape of islands.

I unfurled my body into a flag,
like my country did,
unfurled myself into a ship’s mast,
into the curve of letters on a cave,
into pebbles spelling out a name.

I broke off from the right side of a storm cloud,
broke and crested onto shore,
pulled up and breathed from a river tide,
breathed out to be born.