Now abrades against then.
Sunlight tags clouds, ants on sidewalks,
grass in waves to foundations.
In the sky, fighters flying by
and I run, refugee in a safe country.
My mother remembers skin torn
from bodies, sprayed across her arm,
stranger in another gutter.
You wonder at my moodiness,
it’s hard to explain.
I’m an immigrant in a land
that denies my experiences.
And I’m left to choose.
Is there a right choice, or are all
choices nothing more than denial.
Blood flows differently on different streets.