In my country,
this is how we celebrate a homecoming:
there are no family members at the dinner table,
no loud laughter over embarrassing histories
every member of the family knows too well,
no silence as the strange stories
from the one who just got back
take us past midnight—
no reasons to lose sleep.
Here, homecoming is the struggle for a foreign visa
as family waves goodbye at the airport—
happy to see you flee—sitting in the belly of an iron-winged bird
ribcaged by questions and unpredictability.
Homecoming is a land you’ve never been—
a place built with your hands and mind,
and hopefully, those left at the airport
might eventually be brought home
