“DEDICATION: TO THE REGISTRAR,” by Ashley Inguanta

Years ago, I wrote a poem before boarding an airplane. A dream of mine: When I was a young girl, I held my grandfather’s hand, and we ran. I was a monster, growing. He had the greenest eyes. I remember ghosts. I remember how–after the poem, after the dream—I turned to gold when I kissed my lover, when I kissed her hair. I remember when I thought all of this made sense once, when I drove past palm trees and all things wild. It was in my DNA to love hard.

The dream of my grandfather: There is another man who has never showed up in any of my dreams, but he is also my blood. He had a scar between his eyes. Tell me—when you saw him, when you marked down his features, when you scanned his face—did you see a young girl forming from his DNA, from those lines, from his dark complexion, from the scar between his eyes? I want to know, how did he speak to you? He filled out his draft card, World War II. His body belonged to America. Did he know this? Tell me. Continue reading →