Precious Cargo



I came here with three bags to my name.

Well ... four.

Two trimmed down to 49 pounds,

one at 53 - cost me $200.

The fourth was so full I had to sneak it on the plane,

tucked away, in the secret place,

beneath sweater, shirt, and skin.

The fourth bag was my heart.


"Precious cargo!" I said.

"Can't live without it!" - even if it stops beating.


I had no idea at the time

that it would be wrung dry,

memories packed in still other bags

stored upon arrival for safe-keeping

to make room for new ones.

Stamp of origin rubbed to a blur,

covered with a brand new residential permit.


I thought it would still smell

of crunchy New England leaves

or musty Midwestern air.

But now it smells

like the smog of Beirut

and the sweat of Syrian orphans.

Now it smells like home.

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©2019 by Corey Farr.