What do you say to the earnest smiles
the hearty aren’t-you-glad-to-be-backs?
It was no exile from the first day you knew
you didn’t need to pretend to belong
You thought your skin must be stamped with it
a continent of rivers so swelling your breath
that you’d be forgiven the slow answer but
can’t they see you have no word for home?
Inspired by a new call for submissions at Silver Birch Press.