Home means the same whether there or here,
the desert or city; belonging, safety.
Clothes laid out on a bed, for school,
or to flee from the hell it’s become.
Hate feels the same when it’s borne of the fear,
of an enemy, a friend who has turned away,
or the uninvited, the unexpected,
the frightening masses of misunderstood.
Sanctuary’s the same when you feel it near,
a bed, a box, the hand of a stranger,
the opening door of a house that’s full
with room enough for more.
Salt tastes the same whether wave or tear,
whoever cries for a displaced child,
whichever sea washes his body
with the rhythm of the moon.