Little Homes

a poem by Sarah Ali

It’s the mundane that takes me back:

sunlight glinting off turquoise peaks and swirls of the Neretva,

a raucous kitten winding between my feet,

coconut milk still fresh even out of the can.

Sunlight hits the backs of leaves and sets them alight, a sea of lime and lemon.

My Turkish- and Arabic-speaking friends sit with me and we pass around words

like we’re playing hot potato, or Chinese whispers,

Until something clicks.

Qabool, we cry; a commonality among our tongues.

Believe. Accept. Concordance.

The other night I dreamt

of a winding road back home,

one that led to my best friend’s back door.

His jasmine tree had snowed petals along the soil;

they melted into my palms and fingertips

and I woke up disoriented - the way I felt as a child,

falling asleep on the sofa and waking up in my own bed.

---

Note: everyday sights, sounds, conversations, and rituals have been so important for me in evoking a sense of home. This is a poem I wrote when living abroad for the first time, along the icy Neretva river in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina.