“Welcome home!” the immigration officer said.
He had a Brooklyn accent,
it sounded strange like an exotic bird
freed from its cage in the winter.
A short-sleeved white shirt fit
tightly around his fat arms and freckles
winked across his nose.
He held my passport as a paper weight,
his wrist straining from those countries.
Rolling r’s and throaty g’s escaped from inky visas
that hid beneath his fingernails.
a yellow brick house with ivy walls,
a building of thirty floors,
a white washed bungalow that smelled of jasmine,
gathered in his young hands. I said,
– Lesley Lababidi
(all rights reserved, copyright, 1998) To copy or re-produce photography and/or writings, written permission from Lesley Lababidi is required.