like a Palestinian boy with just a pile of rock
i am helpless
they are the invaders
they have invaded
grammie’s garden cutting down the bell tree
planting sustainable drought resistant grasses
that don’t take me home like the smell
of honeysuckle that used to greet me
reminding me of grammie’s song & lemonade
made from the lemons on the tree that grew by
the back door since I was too little to reach the fruit
gone to clear room for the cedar wood deck
with designer outdoor furniture
to hold lean tan young bodies
& coolers of imported beer
to compliment the grilled artichokes
dipped into hummus
dusted with garlic chives
served cold
where did the laughter that grew wild
beyond the okra patch near the collards go
we used to harvest it in hard times to
remind ourselves we were blessed even
in the lean times the green shoots reminded
us we were human and able
all gone now paved over
in cement with raucous colored
stones painted to resemble animals
from fantasy’s no medicine tree
they shaved it down to the roots
this can’t be healed the
wound will remain
a scar on top of scars
to remind me of dirt I do not own
like the new doors on the house
bright red with big numbers
there was a door with marks
to show how we had grown
in the back hall near the creaky stairs
gone like the smell of lavender
on Sunday morning
& the smell of chicken stuffed with cornbread
steaming on the stove waiting after church
gone the earnest dreams of belonging
packed into the suitcase with the rest
of what we could carry
not everything would fit
so we left it
to be painted over
torn down
remade into something we are not
in the place we used to call home