Abstract
The trauma of the refugee is often a persistent condition as they attempt to fit into their new home, often unwanted and without employment, while coping with the trauma of arrival and the loss of sense of self and the familiarity of a homeland. These poems attempt to explicate some aspects of Muhammad’s experiences in Sicily. Using Muhammad’s own words, I have chosen poetic inquiry to “represent actual experiences, episode, epiphanies, misfortune, pleasures in such a way that others can experience and feel them.”
Ab Ovo
His voice is deep rising, sinking. The long, thin body carries The sweet smell of cologne and sweat. It folds in on itself, draping the metal folding chair. American students listen hard. He tells them of the journey on a boat that looked like the broken back of an old man moments from death. Now he lives in a country that hates him and that he hates in return.
Don’t look at me like that!
Do you think I just fell out of a tree?
Breath is held. He tugs downward on his cap, holds up a large, soft hand. Whispers in the language of the oppressor Perdonami.,
1
Pomodori 2
Do you know where Nardo is? In Puglia? I am waiting to harvest the pomidori. I cannot stay in Sicilia
3
Do not worry about me! We are many men together just waiting for the pomidori.
Veni Qua 4
The kitten’s name is Veni Qua. They live together in a house with no roof. Abandoned. He calls to the cat like a lullaby
Veni Qua, veni Qua.
The local woman with the limp and milky eye feeds her little balls of bread, sometimes pasta on a cracked plate reserved for the abundant strays. The locals respect the itinerant nature of cats. Muhammad thinks it’s easier to be a cat in Sicily than it is to be a refugee. Veni, he calls, holding out a trembling hand. Veni, he repeats until he no longer recognizes the sound of the foreign language coming out of his own mouth.
At Least
Rome might be a better place. It sounds like a question. He knows of the cardboard houses, fragile as a house of cards, the men who knife each other in the streets. I need to work, he repeats often, like a mantra. I reason that Sicily is warm in the winter. The warmth of the Sicilian winter does not sway him. Yes, at least, he snorts, He his back to me. The face of Bob Marely, like the witness he wants smiles mockingly, from back of his hooded sweatshirt.
Smiles knowingly.
Lavoro 5
I have no contract. I will take the job others do not want. Every day I show up and ask the padrone
6
: is this the day I can work? I pray in the language of the Italians he will say “yes.” I will lay out the big plastic sheets, wash them all day long, lick my own sweat. I will be careful to step away from the long snakes coiled and ready ready to spring from the field.
Chi Sono? 7
I came from a family
just like you did.
I have a mother, who loves me,
A father who is no more,
but I was his own.
His voice holds a serrated edge and yet, he is a gentleman.
Do you know who I am?
I am Muhammad.
An almost imperceptible movement of his hand across his eyes, his face.
There are many of us.
I am just one among them.
But really, tell me please:
who am I here, so far from home?
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
