Motherland

 

I can say quite surely,

My mother’s home is my own.

A place where all the people look just like me;

Dark bushy brows, olive skin, sharp eyes, ears and sharp tongues.

 

I know with certainty,

The motherland is someplace far and dry

Where I can trust the people who look just like me.

People who eat grilled liver and sunflower seeds in moonlit parks,

Never picking up the shells or sandwhich wrappings.

 

I am convinced that,

The motherland has ink stains spread over her body just like the ones on the carpet downstairs,

That will probably never come out.

 

Or maybe a painting I drew in school,

Hung on her jagged shoulders like

Loving little reminders of my childhood here.

 

If I squint a little,

Tilt my head away from the too-bright sun and imagine glittering snow instead

My mother’s land can look a little bit like my own.