Aroma

it has become
harder to breathe
on this continent that
is not my own, when
I try to speak, all
that comes out is
the sweet perfume of
small white stars

jasmine vines encapsulate
my lungs— it is not my
space

to grow here

Roots

as the façade slips away,
shaking off the loose soil, you stand.
scraping the dirt built up beneath
unkempt nails, you
were once comfortable here.

memories fray like strings:
tendrils now tiny threads
thin and frail.

carve a hole from sand.
construct a dusty semblance
of home. from sediment and rock,

snakes replace the insects that fed you
starve, shrivel into the limestone scared.
sacred water. will not be spilled
for you here. you, a desert
rose.

Motherland

I have an uneasy feeling of home
creeping up on me, closing in
like a sunset smothering a smoky sky suffocating the atmosphere
with dark orange cellophane
it is too warm

the fires call from across the way
they make themselves known
beyond the flashing lights
a train is coming too fast
to think about goodbyes
the wind scorns, “this is not

your home anymore,
stop coming back”