Immigrant

Home is your birthplace, they said.

It’s that one, I said –

the one across the border –

we share the same fields, don’t we?

the same stretch of tar, don’t we?

the same breeze every evening, don’t we?


It’s your enemy, they said.

But I can’t help, I said.

I have to turn my head around,

take a glimpse,

a last one.


I can’t be scornful of it, like they do.

It’s where half of my heart lies,

it’s where summers spent frolicking,

have had memories reside.


You have to return, they said.

My memories won’t, I said.

What of that hint of identity,

that glimpse of borrowed expression,

that sound of overheard dialect?

They won’t.


Home, I said, can’t be one.

It has to be two places,

all at once.

So I reside in no-man’s land,

that one place which is as much home,

as either one.

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