At The March

Put down your placard, go home,

they say. I stand my ground.

Where’s home? I say.

In the land of my birth,

where they corral the living,

where sweet saviours weep,

bury skin and bone bundles

someplace no place like home?

.

Pick up your friend, go home,

they say. I hold her soft body.

Where’s home? I say.

In the cold cardboard cities,

under arches and bridges,

on benches, in alleys, in doorways,

or subways, where the lost and alone

share their need for connection?

.

Pay up your fine, go home,

they say. I shoulder my rucksack.

Where’s home? I say.

Where the waters are rising, rains

never come, scorched earth is trembling,

frail buildings fall,

and forests burn fiercer

than a candidate’s rhetoric?

.

Pack up your stall, go home,

they say. I rise to my feet.

Where’s home? I say.

If it’s where the heart is,

then my heart has spoken, fears

being cracked by each liberty taken,

on the streets, in the home,

on the page, in the statute.

.

Play by the rules, go home,

they say. I turn on my shadow.

Whose rules? I say. I'll go home,

where there’s food on the table,

where there’s warmth in the hearth.

But my soul knows its place.

I’ll go home, I say,

but I’ll be back tomorrow.