An International Woman

An international woman on a therapist’s coach

A wise woman:
Where’s thy home, lass?
Where’re thy roots?

Me:
There. Never here.
Then. Never now.
Elusive this year,
More so than the last.

A wise woman:
A miserable tortoise you are,
With the home on your back,
But your shell obsolete.

Me:
My heart split in three,
By birth, by desire, by fate.

It hums to the tune
Its fur-clad forefathers had sung,
A sentimental hymn to the eagle
That cries over the proud slaves’ spilled blood.

Leaping with joy
At kookaburra’s sweat teasing,
It follows ancient warriors
In their walkabout dreams.

It wails with the gusts.
It sobs with the skies.
Alone on the island,
Where it does not fit.

A wise woman:
Where’s thy home, lass?
Where does it feel safe?

Me:
In-so-ever-between.
With one foot my own,
The other apart.
Uncommitted.
Allowed to flee.

In Singapore,
At the airport the size of a town.
In a transit lounge.
On a bunk which rested a crowd.
Here I am my true self,
An international woman,
A tortoise without shell.