My hope for you is that you will have unbroken skin.

It will be brown or white or pink

and you will be proud of it and it will hold you

in a way that mine could not hold me.

When I sing the songs our old people sung

I hope you can feel them in your tinana-to-be.

I hope the sounds of our language lap over you

like seawater on ankles and that you will never feel

the hot prickling, the gulping for air, the sting/the stuttering, the splitting of skin.

I hope that your lips will never betray you

As mine do.

Sometimes, in the evenings, when I'm alone

and there is a little bit of light left, just enough

To turn the trees into black paper cutouts

I wonder if it is you I can feel, just out of sight

not quite ready yet

Waiting

For me while I am waiting for you