Leaving Home

There are RULES in this house,

just like there are RULES

in my countries. Do not cross

borders of political  or

emotional or intellectual territories.

Stay in your own lane. Keep

your head down, do not look around you.

It is 1932 again in German Pennsylvania

just like it is 1980 again

in the Altiplano of Guatemala.

No place feels like home right now.

My mother’s past lover

has checked out in front of the tv

on his chair and her new one

comes from fermented grapes.

We do not talk about any of this.

 

We do not talk to each other.

We especially do not talk

to other cultures. In either place.

Nationalists wrap their racism

in flags of custom,

placing crosses on top of neatly ordered

boxes and coffins for the people

they would shoot.

The whole mess is varnished

with a thin veneer of sympathy;

we can cry over the poor children

drowning in Pakistan on the tv

as long as nobody actually has

to DO anything. As long as neither

they nor their ideas, come here.  

We do not talk about any of this.

 

We have become a backward home,

we have become a new economic

reality. You may cook any food

you want as long as it is not too

“ethnic.” You may speak any

language you want as long

as we do not have to hear it. We only

want to meet a partner with a

certain skin tone. We will tolerate

any behavior if it is performed

by people who worship the right way.

We will sacrifice our own children

to the gods of silence and of protecting

the all-powerful ties of family.

You are no longer family if you stayed

too long, elsewhere.

We do not talk about any of this.

 

My old home is now a place where

pets go to euthanize their owners,

my new home is a place where

whiskey checks in to become sober.

Old people sit around to complain

about the youth, the youth leave

because nobody can afford to live

in the country any more

if nobody will hire you. My parents’

generation calls us spoiled and lazy

for wanting to heal. We simply do not

want to be euthanized, alongside

the dreams bleeding into the carpet

with each missed opportunity to connect.

There are RULES in this house.

We do not talk about any of this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

There is an underlying defiance to this poem of yours Marie which I find to be very uplifting. For all the words of what we don't want to talk about, the real issues we seem to avoid even acknowledging exist, your very willingness to write them down is a victory. The line I find most haunting is "you are no longer family if you stayed too long, elsewhere." More than anything else I think this line speaks to the deep dividing times we are living in. The tragedy of lifetime bonds being splintered by an inability to any longer show empathy for one another, or to tolerate an otherness, the otherness upon which liberal nations were supposedly built. Where we go from here is one of my most fearful questions, because I don't have an answer for it. Sadly, I am not sure you do either.
Really enjoyed this remarkable poem
Ken