Inousa

Home.

My kitchen. My dining room table.  My living room.

Our beds.

Our bathroom.

Our TV.

Our groceries.

Our meals.

My front door. 

My small patio, with plants and caged bird.

Picture frames. 

Books. 

Echoes,

of our talks, our laughs,

our arguments, our scolding,

of soft assurances,

that there are no monsters under the bed. 

Curtains to open and close,

and brooms to sweep up,

the dust and activity of our daily life. 

It’s all here. 

In this house. 

On this block.  At our market.

At the spice store.

At the tailors.

At the bakery.

At the temple.

At the school.

In the shade of the olive tree,

at the park. 

It’s all here. 

It’s all assured.  Guaranteed. 

We have tomorrow. 

And next year,

and the next decade,

and the rest of our lives. 

3am.

Deserted island.

No more home.

All rubble. 

Haven’t eaten in days.

I hold my four-month old baby,

in the dead of night,

can only hear the lapping of the water,

and our faint breathing.

Haven’t slept in a bed in nine months.

Gave birth in a refugee camp.

Desperate,

I agreed to board the boat,

from Libya,

hopefully to Italy.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t even know if I will survive. 

I don’t even know if there is a place for me in the world.

I don’t even know,

if my baby will live. 

I’m numb. 

It is dark. 

I’m freezing. 

There is no one here. 

I can’t even remember,

my life before the war.

It is a lifetime ago. 

I’m not sure. 

I’m not sure. 

I’m just breathing,

for this moment. 

My life,

is one breath,

at a time.