short poems for quick getaways…
My ancestors left
with their lives packed on their backs
and gold in their teeth.
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Migration stories
start with a hope for something
better. Or with force.
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This small suitcase will
not carry my life story.
These words must suffice.
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Such a luxury,
pondering what I would pack
with a day’s notice.
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Family heirlooms packed.
Photos ready to go. When
will we stop for tea?
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“Come, honey, it’s time.”
“Okay! Okay! I’m coming.
But…where will we go?”
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One can’t un-drop bombs
nor bring the dead back to life.
What good is my prayer?
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From whence do you come?
Surely you are not native–
though you transplant well.
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Nothing is the same.
Learning this language is like
walking on the moon.
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It’s a discipline
to keep mind and heart focused
in a time of war.
