1

When the Captain turns off the fasten-seat-belt light
and opens the cabin to the low hum of darkness,
my stomach churns. When the guy next to me thrusts
the window with such force, that would-be-smooth
swishes become more like smacks, and I forget
what the pull looks like for a moment, my left eyebrow
twitches. It keeps on even after the woman behind me
states, in a voice so loud the man fourteen rows up turns
around to look, that she's a trapped rat. Even after
a turbaned baby cries into his mother's red and yellow sari
and she lets her older boys wash their hands
with the bathroom door open, giggling and splashing water
like they aren't still naked from the waist down.
Where is home in all of this? Is it when you struggle
not to lean against the elevator's insides, the cool biting
at the unexpected heat. Or when you wonder if you'll ever
decorate those prison like walls, if it's worth it.
After all, you didn't bring that many clothes,
so what's a poster worth anyway?