Exile8 December 2020
لا أرض فوق الأرض تحملني
No land on this earth carries me
So my speech carries me
I do not speak of olive trees and the smell of gunpowder.
My exile is one of peace,
the crash of the Arabian sea. The crescendo of the adhan,
the steam of a stone oven. A mother’s soothing hum,
a father’s provision.
My exile is one of exclusion,
the unfamiliar turn of a dialect.
An airport returned to,
a line for foreigners.
My exile is one of choice,
a clipping of a job advertisement,
the promise of a home.
My exile is a poem,
a land of its own.