What does it mean to be violently displaced– roots cut?
To become nameless; faceless as you blend into a sea of faces
around you. What does it mean when home is no longer safe?

That your savings vanished, your job disappeared,
house flattened, families killed? What does it mean
to walk a thousand miles, cross borders, seek refuge?

Memories fade as you struggle to stay alive in the dark.
Packed into camps, living under tents.
Indefinitely postponing your medical needs.

No calls to make, no emails to send.
No papers to read, no news to watch.
You are the headline; the show others are watching.

What does it mean to survive war? To be denied entry?
Refused , turned down, and rejected once more at borders?
I hope to never know. I cannot even ask.

Customs at the borders, bureaucrats in consulates,
and elites in parliaments won’t let you in;
a few citizens even protested.
If you are angry, I understand. If you hate me, I understand.

I watched the movie and I did not recognize you.
Your name was in the credits, though. I checked.
“Yes, Mom, the makeup artist is a genius.”

You did not make it to the cover of Vogue.
They put up another woman, younger
with sexy, hungry eyes,
like those of a wild wolf looking for a mate
in the middle of the night,
or an English princess forced into celibacy.

“That’s me, Mom; it is just a different angle,
dim lighting, and a few brushes of Photoshop.”