A Poem About Home

I don’t write poetry often, but when I do, the topic of homesickness comes up a lot. So, of course I had to write a poem about home.

Many immigrants have a complicated relationship with their home country. For some, it’ll be that land they long for, the keeper of their best memories, of sounds of smells they’ll never get to experience again. For others, home is a house full of thorns — familiar, but painful.

This poem is my attempt at reconciling those memories in the aftermath of my leaving my country.

a poem about home
Credit: Euro Slice

A poem about home 

I remember the clear blue skies

the chilly rainy days

the cool October winds signalling the end of the school year

the cicadas crying for rain

the butterflies bringing spring on their wings

the ancient green giant watching over us

his warmth barely contained under rocky dark blankets.

I remember the sleepy towns

our hideout in the foggy mountains where I said ‘I love you’ for the first time

and the wild waves we used to ride on the weekends

our skin angry and red and salty and peppered with dark sand.

I dream of many faces

all of them smiling as they pass by

golden brown, kissed by the sun

infinitely patient at my silences, my anger, my disappearing acts.

I hear their laughter as we walk together on dirty sidewalks

passing by tall walls lined with broken glass

and barbwire

pretending to ignore the vague black threats tagged on doors

and the suffocating hand of uncertainty behind the smog

wondering what safety even feels like

wondering which one of us will be next

performing death in the newspapers

under white sheets

because what else is there to feel

other than fear and disgust?

I am haunted by her sunny smile clouded by the plastic bag around her head

by the bullet that stole his eye

by the ghouls that drove her away from home

by the corpse I stumbled upon on my way to the gym

by the crowds cheering wildly at the emperor’s cries for blood

by the deafening hatred making us turn against one another

devouring each other on our way out.

Liked what you read? Here are other stories I think you’ll enjoy: Not A Poem | Memories

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