I grew up in a cult.

We were the minority.
until we took over the city.

Other cults tried as well.
They dressed in orange and red,
shaved their heads,
sang songs at the airport.

Their tambourines jingling in the air
between the baggage claim and the tourists.

Unlike them,
my cult was submissive.
We tried not to stick out.

Although most of the outsiders thought
we were loud and boisterous,
we were quiet between ourselves.
There was unification in our cause.
A silent understanding of what
had to be done.

And so, we set out
to infiltrate the universities.
We earned the degrees
in the language of the locals.
We built houses, temples,
churches, schools.

We renamed the streets
after the names of the executed.
We married and procreated
and taught our offspring
the language of the cult.

Some of us infiltrated
New Jersey and Chicago.
Our community there was not
as vivacious as the original city
we took over.

Miami was the city
which most reminded
us of home.

And there I lived.
In that city
among my cult
until one day
I had to leave.

And so it is written.

I settled in the prairie
where the seasons changed.
Where there was no shore to escape to.
No shore to wait for others to arrive.
And here my offspring
will grow among the corn stalks
where I will
to look back
and become salt.