2015 poem #1 tanka sequence

beneath ceiling fans
marking time like metronomes
I became ‘foreign’
Eastern, not Western
I would never fit again

even where my blonde hair
drew no curious dark hands
where my pleated skirt
looked just like the other girls
I was suspect, alien

that wood ceiling fan
began the process of change
circles circling round
the transformation of breath
the wings that would haunt & lift

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