Forty-Four

the women here have soft

peach-skinned complexions;

round, flat, sweet

cake faces floating in a sea of

butter and mountain oxygen.

tapestries, jewelry and

droopy pants hang from

metallic hangers shielded by

plastic blue sheets from

god-sent rains.

their eyes all look the same:

smooth, creamed,

smiling with knowledge,

surrender and

love.

yes, this is not our country-

we sip milky chai from

faded glasses,

oiling our finger ridges with

puris and potatoes-

but it's a place to live,

to sleep, to eat foreign

breads. to breathe

free.

home is anywhere,

and we will go there, quietly.