There are two phases to this
An exile that is physical – you have
ten days, three days, and then you cannot return here,
to your spiral cooktop, to your view of the construction zone,
to the broken stairs leading to the park,
to the fire escape where people light fires,
to where the cleaning lady put down her broom
and used her dirty hands to teach you how to peel potatoes,
to the window seat you made and dreamt about –
big enough for two bodies to stare at the lights at night –
to the shop downstairs that knows which tea you like
and has it ready in the morning when you stop by –
you never asked for this, the favor just began.
An exile that is mental – don’t talk
about the pain, don’t cry
when someone asks why you left,
learn to shrug when you say war,
learn to lie about how things are
better in the new country,
not that things aren’t more plentiful, or expensive,
sure they are better, better, but don’t tell others
that you long for the uncultivable dirt
and the street dogs; you long for the
imprecise bus schedule and the unpredictable route –
changing based on the driver’s mood or a rider’s wallet –
learn to ignore the desire to talk to everyone you meet
with a tee-shirt written in a language
that you know just because you want to
share stories about the streets after the rain
and make a joke only they might get,
because they might not get it,
it might just be a tee shirt, you might just be a refugee
even if you’re back in your birth country
because you had to leave, you were given no choice,
and the only decision left to you
is deciding which is worse.
