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.
