A Place to Call Home | Bernadette N. Daly
Today, on the radio I heard the story of a refugee, a Tibetan girl
She sits in her Minneapolis apartment, inscrutable behind her shell
She has a startling tale to tell
Of being hunted, hidden
Under a tarp with pounding heart
Amongst vegetables on a rickety cart.
For days life was a Chinese roulette
Escape uncertain, agonizing
Over her lack of goodbyes.
I would like to seek her out and paint
Her faraway look, her utter distance from this foreign city
Which she now calls home, or at least a safe place to stay,
Having just escaped from terror half a world away.
And now she has more walls to climb
Not as high and flinty as her Himalayas
But for her at this moment
Our language, our culture
Are just as impassable.