There was and was not home, on the first beat of my heart, he brought the cherry core from across the sea and up the Smokey mountains. He dropped it in the Oakman backyard where it didn't care to grow.
There was and was not home, an old banjo no longer collected dust under the floorboards. The national anthem filled the chasm of the second beat, perfectly in tune. The moon followed me down the shawarma streets, past the hajji's with too many bags purses opened offering my hearts desire, all to make sure I got home safe.
There was and was not home, a dabkeh line of one. My misfit friends and I slip condoms over windshield wipers. The mosque has more mercedes than pistachio shells. The shot of a3lkey warms my bones to the marrow while the coals burn my nose-hairs. In the third beat, loneliness rides the waves of the smoke. I sit a caterpillar in mesmerising wonderland.
There was and was not home, among dandelions and weeds. Mountain odes of stolen girls for each bracelet of gold on the matriarchs neck. But behind the smokestacks I spy with Fatima’s little blue eye; Djinni brides in mammoth butterfly gowns running away to outer-space. Their hearts beating wilder than my own fourth beat.
There was and was not home, on the fifth I cry at the Bakery over fresh bread. Home is where mama is, but mama's home won't see me sunkissed in the summer. Maps I drew in infancy pointed to the green carpets of this city. Home was always the four walls of the city? With its many minarets fanning the moon even in its sleep. By the moon cherry tree would not grow, but I blossomed in the dark somewhere near its place.