The woman from Iraq tows
her children through the park.
Wind troubles her black
robes painting a ship
sailing on a green sea.
Her children run free as waves.
The woman sits by the lake
oasis in a strange land
lacking the hospitality of raisins and sweet tea.
She throws bread to two swans
that paddle her lostness
to the other side.
Allows solitude of swans
to carry her home where palms
and palaces welcome her
beneath the dome of blue sky.
Feels the desertion of exile
beneath her breast
beneath her fingernails
the refuge of spices.
© Anne Powell
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