WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

Why does the sky appear black from the airplane
even though it’s sweltering noon on the ground?
Tell me it’s the city mourning my departure—
the sun has taken some time out
to weep.

Streetlights below glitter blandly like ants
in a line, or the words of a poem. Unaware
of the world around them.
Oh city of facades!
Tell me that you loved me when I sat in your cafés,
breathed your air, walked your streets.

I know I wasn't born to you. I know my parents
lived in your shacks to earn bread and were waiting
to leave your torturous corporate holes. I know that I walked
to school in your streets with the knowledge that I didn't
belong. I couldn’t stay long. Yet tell me you loved me
through your polluted air.

Tell me to not forget following
tour guides down your creeks, memorizing
the veins of your roads—the ones that clogged
in the November rain. We’d dawdle hip-deep in water
down your zebra crossings,
while men in fluorescent orange boiler suits
pumped the water into their tipsy tankers.

I go back to a home I do not know, because I spent
all my life in pursuit of you.
Do you know how many friends I leave behind,
incubated in your belly?
Do you know an apartment now sits naked
and scarred in your gully?
I wish a crowd gathered at the airport
to wave me goodbye. I wish you grounded
my airplane. I wish you brought in a storm
and wailed that you would never let me go.