I am a stealer.
Yet , I do not steal gold.
I steal: homes my father rents, with every relocation .
Where are you my home ?
Are you in the depths of the green palm trees in Iraq?
Are you my school that burned down?
Are you the banana tree in my garden-I would watch grow, but never eat from ?
Are you my pint-sized balcony in Geneva ?
Or in the plate of Mansaf, cooked by your second mom?
Or in the place you were born, but seldom lived ?
My birth place: where I am instantly repulsed by the smell of pollution.
I run to the sound of cars honking .
I run to the collective smell of: war and poverty , I have not experienced.
To every memory I created , in countries soon gone .
I leave before they burn .
My home is in the palms of a gold - chain that holds my name.