September 12, 2017Home That Would Not Let Us Stay
after Tiana Clark’s “Equilibrium”
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After thirty years
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I finally managed
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to figure out
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what home means
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to a refugee. Plume
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the flickering ash
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around the reality
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of waking up at dawn
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to a new statute
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asking me to name
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every line on
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my thickening palms.
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The landlord is
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the god I see
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at night. I pray
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to him for permission
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to call his house home.
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When he touches
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my daughter where no man
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should touch
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her, I pull the nonplussed girl
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by the ear
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and warn her to use
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the kitchen
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door henceforth. Cutting
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cantaloupes,
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the sight of policemen
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coming
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towards my door
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makes the fruit bleed
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my dark blood,
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but they have not come
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to ask why I cut
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myself, they have come
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to ask if I wasn’t
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a terrorist to bomb
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innocent neighbors
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in no distant future.
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I would tend to
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my bloody finger later,
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asking where
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my appetite has gone.
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I know home was
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where death ambushed
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my destiny,
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I know it should be
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where the sun rills in
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with a smile,
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not climbs arrogantly
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upon my vertebrae,
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not make rent the tears
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that must not
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dry up before
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the next election.
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My weakened muscles
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purr at the veins
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delivering gas to
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my heart that
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would not stop
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pounding. Each time
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someone tries to
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extinguish the fire
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of political bigotry,
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the rotten air
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runnels through,
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feeding oil
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to the rampaging
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flame. I look out
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through the
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basement window,
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| my eyes | traversing oceans |
| and mountains | calling home, waiting |
| for something | beautifully naked |
| to crawl up ashore | and say stay here. |
from Poets Respond