for my mother
She is surprised by the pink cyclamen

in the pot, examines the foreign
petals, upswept as if reaching toward

another place. Her own journey seems muted now,
details as far away as her childhood in Palestine.

Where in one scenario she would have lived 
in the same place until great grandchildren

played around the lemon tree that defined
her family’s house in scent and space.

Where in the real scenario
she fled for her life with a husband and baby,

in her pocket a key that rusted over the years.
Her memories are like henna on a hand,

splendid arabesques fading each day
until gone. She has covered so many miles

by boat, plane, car, on foot, measured
by oceans and clouds, gas fumes,

tattered flags left behind, driver’s licenses,
rental agreements, goodbyes to friends and family,

a lifetime unanchored, cleaved.
She continues to worry someone

is plotting to take away her home
while slowly hunching over, a downswept

bent flower weighed down by hallucinations.
She knows some things never leave you

so you have to leave them yourself,
takes small steps away

looking for some peace.