The Nomadic Heart

If home
Is where the heart is,
Then I understand
Why I am
Splintered.

Torn
Not in two
But in too many directions
That I seem to have lost
My compass.

It beats to
Berkeley beatniks
Mariachi and New Orleans jazz
The musical offerings of my
People.

Swelling
With the River Ganges,
And the floating cacophony
Of Jerusalem’s Friday
Prayers.

Broken
By blood and borders
Flood and famine
It cries out,
“Come.”

Stitched
Back together [or close]
By family, fraternité, ya habibi
It whispers to me,
“Stay.”

But
It is not long
Before ache and longing
Pull me by heartstrings to
Distant shores.

Always
I will remain
A stranger in a strange land
Forever and never
At home.

Holding a heart
Flung to far corners,
It is impossible
To stay
Still.