By Jenise Miller

On a black machine in the exam room,
I read the words right/isthmus.
I only knew isthmus, as narrow body
of land, water on two sides, home
to my great-grandparents, their bodies
black machines that dug the canal
where two oceans now meet.

I carry that isthmus in my body.

A fine needle pierces my neck,
digs through nodules clumped
like hard earth to the isthmus
in my throat, bridge to the voice
I have not used. Like those before
me, I hope to find new life
on the other side.

Jenise Miller is the daughter of Black Panamanian immigrants and
descendant of Panama Canal builders. Her experiences moving from
place-to-place and as an urban planner inspire her writing about place
identity. A Pushcart-nominated poet and Voices of Our Nations Arts
(VONA) alumna, she is the author of the poetry chapbook, The Blvd, and
has published work in KCET Artbound, Boom California, Cultural Weekly,
Dryland Literary Journal, and the Acentos Review. She lives in Compton
with her family.